


Trailblazer

by hipsterariel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst and Feels, Bottom!Mickey, Future AU, M/M, Mickey in Mexico, Original Character(s), POV Mickey Milkovich, POV Original Character, Pets, Post-Canon, Rimming, Shameless, Smut, beach!mickey, fugitive!mickey, post 7x11, prison flashbacks, so many feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9408713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hipsterariel/pseuds/hipsterariel
Summary: Post 7x11:Mickey crosses the border into Mexico. He's hurting and angry but determined to turn things around and make the most of the second chance he carved out for himself.





	1. Mexico

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is a multichap that picks up at the end of the 7x11 demon episode, so Ian is still in the US, Mickey is upset and angry and is still wearing that godforsaken dress and earrings and tights (don't worry, he didn't like wearing them at all so he doesn't become a Mexican fugitive transvestite or anything, because this ain't Shameless).
> 
> Mickey is moving on with his life in this fic, so if that's your jam, I hope you love this. **Pretty much everything we hate about canon WILL BE FIXED in this fic.** But I'm not going to do it hastily at the start of the fic. The canon fix will be a slow burn that really is part of the story.
> 
> There will be prison flashbacks in this fic because 7x10 and 7x11 opened up so many questions for me re what Mickey got upto in prison and the not-knowing is haunting me I tell you, and I need to write about it. Also Damon Mexican Banger Hitman Motherfuckerrr will feature in these flashbacks so we'll find out more about Shameless' best BrOTP that never was.
> 
> Hit me up on the tumblr I created for this fic: [mickeyxmexico.tumblr.com](https://mickeyxmexico.tumblr.com/) . This fic going to be more than just something to read, I'm aiming to make it a fun, visual thing as well.
> 
> And for those that have been following along on Mickey's tumblr, Raul will be in this fic. We will find out all about Raul and his backstory.
> 
> Got it? Good.
> 
> Let's do this.

The boom gate lifts and the border officials wave him on. Mickey drives, breath held, his foot on the accelerator, the engine humming lowly, just barely above idling and the car rolls. Slowly, so slowly, past the guards, the gate and beneath the underpass. At some point during those twenty seconds, he passes over the border from the United States. _Welcome to Mexico_. The passage is equal parts monumental and absurd. Arbitrary.

Mickey is free now, in the uncertain and precarious way that only a fugitive can be. He feels relief, regardless, just not in the way that he had imagined. Not in the way he had believed he would when he’d thought about this for the last eight months in the joint. Because Ian isn’t with him, and Ian was a major part of his plan. Fuck, Ian _was_ the plan. Mickey hadn’t really imagined this new life without Ian, hadn’t even wanted this life without him. 

_This isn’t me anymore._

Ian’s words echo in his head, repeating, insistent, taunting him. The words are dark and heavy with meaning, at the same time they’re meaningless because they explain nothing. They hung in the air when Ian said them, ominous and final, in the same way they’re looming now in his mind, as questions rather than answers. He wonders if he’ll ever stop hearing them, if he’ll ever remember Ian saying anything else, or if this final memory will consume all others, even the good ones. And there were good memories, even if Mickey can’t quite recall them right now. His mind is too busy trying to erase the memory of Ian’s lips as they formed the words, his eyes as he spoke them, breaking them up, tearing them apart, saying goodbye. Again.

He casts his gaze to the rearview mirror and watches as the border crossing slowly stretches out behind him. Ian is there; he’s watching. Mickey thinks he sees him almost smile; pleased he made it across, probably. Ian grows smaller as Mickey presses his foot slowly to the floor, engine thrumming, increasing speed. He thinks he would probably turn the car around if he could. He’d turn around and go back for Ian, fight for him, convince him to just _get in the fucking car_ and _stop being such a fucking pussy_. But he can’t, because it’s already some kind of miracle that he has made it over the border in the first place. Mickey can’t go back. He probably never will. Mexico will be his home now.

The road behind Mickey becomes distant, narrower, abstract. It begins to look less like a road and more like a piece of string. A thread. Like the thread that connected them for five years. The thread tightens and frays and slowly unravels under the strain as Mickey puts distance between himself and Ian. And then suddenly, Mickey can’t see Ian anymore and just like that, the tension becomes too great and the thread has broken, snapped.

Ian is gone. 

Ian has been gone before, more times than Mickey really cares to remember. But Mickey never truly let himself believe that it was ever the end for them. He might have felt like it was, when his heart ached endlessly in his chest and the lump in his throat kept rising, reappearing, no matter how many times he tried to swallow it. But the quiet, rational part of his brain always told him that they weren’t done. How could they be? There had always been obstacles, sometimes the worst kind, but they’d overcome them. In prison Mickey had let himself believe that if they could just see each other, _really fucking see each other_ , they would be okay; Ian really would wait for him, and when Mickey got out, legitimately or otherwise, they'd be together. But he knows now, he knows that this time they are done. This time, Mickey is a fugitive and Ian is in Chicago. This is it for them. 

Mickey turns the car at an intersection, staying on the highway, bypassing Neuvo Laredo. He can’t see the border crossing in his rearview anymore. Just like Ian, the United States is gone. His past has been abandoned in another country, along with everything and everyone that led him to this moment. Mickey feels shattered; smashed into pieces that only vaguely resemble him. There are pieces missing now, vital pieces, and he doesn’t know how he’ll put himself back together without them. His eyes are hot and stinging as the tears pool in his eyes. His hands are on the steering wheel, gripping, sweaty. Ink dark and knuckles white. The threat on his fists seems idle, now; FUCK U-UP. He wonders how, after all the years he spent walking around with those words etched upon him, physically and mentally part of him, it’s him who has been ruined, destroyed. It’s Mickey that’s been fucked up in a way that physical pain could never quite manage and he doesn’t appreciate the irony.

The road Mickey is travelling on is flat and unchanging. Occasionally he passes a small convoy of trucks, a car here or there, but for the most part he’s alone, just him. Desert stretches out either side of him, the landscape dry and sparse and level. Vast. The emptiness surrounding him seems infinite, almost overwhelming, and if he thinks too much about it, his breath hitches in his throat, as if the air has suddenly thinned. For an entire year, his six by eight foot cell, all white brick and stainless steel, was his life. It was cold and overbearing and claustrophobic, but it was familiar. And this - the sky and the horizon and the desert plains, stark and dotted with cacti - is new and different. The space feels suffocating and immense at the same time. So he tries not to think too much about about where he is, but instead, what he is doing; he keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him, fixed. Focussed.

_I love you._

It’s Ian’s voice in Mickey’s head again. Those words. Those three fucking words. It was the first time in his life that Mickey had ever heard them. Until he met Ian, those words had only ever existed for Mickey on television and in movies. Mickey had wanted to hear them, wanted Ian to say them to him for years now. But he doesn’t feel vindicated after finally hearing them; his heart doesn’t swell in the way he’d always imagined it would when - not if, when - Ian told him. He realises it isn’t only the circumstances under which Ian said the words, it was the _way_ he said them; as a consolation prize. Ian’s money and a conciliatory _I love you_. Mickey would rather not have either of them. Not if he can’t have Ian. He wonders blithely whether he’ll ever love anyone else or if he’ll ever hear those words again, if they’ll ever be said to him under better circumstances. And if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know whether he even wants it. Because he has only ever experienced love with pain - emotional pain. And emotional pain is relentless and as far as Mickey knows, incurable. He knows all about physical pain, knows how to prevent a black eye, fix up a cut with superglue and he knows how get a bullet wound treated on the downlow. But Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to do with emotional pain. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to just ride the pain out, wait for it to fade - does it fade? - or if he is meant to just bury it; swallow it down, rebuild the walls that Ian spent years tearing down, and protect himself. Mickey doesn’t know because nobody ever taught him.

Mickey is in Monterrey before his tears finally stop falling. His face is red and his eyes are puffy and warm, but they are dry and he thinks that maybe he won’t cry again for a while now. The stinging behind his eyes has been replaced by a burning in his gut, a fire. He knows the feeling well. It’s not hurt this time; it’s anger. He’s angry at Ian, himself, the world. Mostly Ian. Actually really, truly fucking _pissed off_ at Ian. He isn’t angry because Ian isn’t with him right now; he had on some level, prepared himself for that. He’s angry because Ian sat there and let Mickey wax on about the beach and the sun and their future together and then left him. He’s angry because he gave Ian choices, he let him have an out - hell, he gave him three of them - and he still said yes, only to eventually say no. He’s angry because Ian gave him hope and then snatched it away, tore it up and burned it at the last second, right when it really fucking mattered.

Still, Mickey’s anger comforts him because the feeling is familiar, it’s him. He’s grown up with anger, he knows anger, knows how to deal with it. Anger is countered by fighting, vicious words, fists and knuckles, broken skin and blood. Mickey can turn anger into _something_. He can use it. He can plan and plot and scam. Anger is self-preservation for Mickey and it’s exactly what he needs right now; to keep himself alive, focussed and out of prison. He needs to plan, make decisions, take precautions. 

He stops the car in Monterrey to fill up on petrol, water and snacks. It’s hot outside and he’s still wearing that damn dress and those tights. Sweat beads on his skin instantly and he quickly changes out of the _disguise_ and back into his jeans and one of Ian’s tank tops. The shirt still smells like Ian which only serves to stoke Mickey’s anger. If he had any other options as far as summer clothing, he’d hurl Ian’s shirt out the window once he got back on the highway. He tells himself that, at least.

Mickey takes out his new phone and checks his maps, checks he’s headed in the right direction. His thumb brushes lightly over the camera roll icon and the app opens, a picture of Ian, a selfie, greets him. He bites down on his lip and stares at the photo, ignoring the voice in the back of his head telling him to _just fucking delete it_. Mickey can tell by the background that the photo was taken the morning after they camped out at the bridge. He knows, he just fucking knows, by the look on Ian’s face, the guilt in his eyes and the way his lips are curled into a resigned half-smile, that the photo was taken the moment Ian decided he was going to leave him.

Mickey wants to scream at Ian for leaving this picture on his phone, his new phone which was, until Ian got his hands on it, blank and crisp and fresh, knowing nothing of Ian Gallagher. He’s angry because Ian has imprinted himself on MIckey’s new phone, on his new life, like a ghost. Mickey knows it would be easy - theoretically - to delete the photo, and he wants to, he really does, but he can’t bring bring himself to, can’t will his finger to move and make landfall on that trash icon. So he leaves it, for now. He’s well aware - because he fucking knows himself - that he’ll return to the photo over and over. He’ll remind himself how Ian left him because in the time that they were separated, Ian had changed and Mickey had stayed the same.

_I’ve got my shit together, Mickey._

Fuck, Mickey had seen that. When Ian showed up at the bleachers in his work clothes, his nurse-on-wheels uniform, Mickey could see. Ian had been doing well, taking his meds, looking after himself. And Mickey was proud - he was. But it stung a little too - it still stings. Because prison doesn’t exactly lend itself to people getting their life together. And even though Mickey knows that it wasn’t Ian’s _fault_ that he ended up in prison, he was still in there _because_ of Ian and that hurts. It hurts knowing how much Ian changed without him around. If he hadn’t gone to prison, Mickey knows they’d both have their _shit together_ and everything would be different now. And it hurts the way Ian said the words too; as though Mickey had resurfaced in Ian’s life to derail him, destroy everything. So Mickey ditched Damon, because despite Damon having been a good friend, he was a loose canon. He was loyal to Mickey and tough as fucking nails, but hot-headed and unpredictable and was likely to get them both arrested or killed. If Ian had his shit together, then Mickey wanted to get himself together too - get an actual job in Mexico, stay on the down low, see how the honourable citizen thing worked out for him. Mickey didn’t mention any of this to Ian and he wonders if he had, if Ian had known that Mickey was going to turn things around in Mexico, really fucking try, then maybe Ian would still be here with him. Maybe they’d still be together. 

There are too many maybes, too many what ifs, contingencies and caveats rolling around in Mickey’s head and his eyes are stinging again. _Fuck._ He forces the thoughts of Ian out of his head for now. He has a lifetime ahead of him to wallow and rage and cry about Ian fucking Gallagher. But right now he has to drive, has to keep moving forward. He’ll be driving for twelve hours before he is where he wants to be, and he’s planned the stops. There are cities dotted sparingly in the mountains between Monterrey and the beach, and he needs to reach every one of them each day by nightfall. 

Mickey looks up at the sky, pale blue and infinite and free of clouds and he smiles in spite of himself. The sun will rise and fall each day and Mickey will get to see it now. And when he’s finally finished driving he’ll find somewhere to live and get an actual job and stay out of trouble. He’ll work on improving his Spanish and maybe he’ll even learn how to swim. 

When Mickey Milkovich gets to the beach, he’ll start over. 

 


	2. Crazy Motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison Flashback: Takes place 3 weeks after Mickey was arrested, before 6x01. We meet Mickey's cellmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning see end notes

**Cook County Metropolitan Correctional Centre - Three weeks in.**

“You gonna talk to me?” Mickey asked, phone to his ear, eyeing Ian through the glass. Ian looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, shadowing his skin which seemed paler than usual. Hair a mess, in need of a cut. He wasn’t sleeping, Mickey could tell. Fuck, he wished he could touch Ian, feel his skin under his fingers one more time. Mickey wanted to kiss him, sure, but he mostly needed to touch him, to feel like himself again. He needed to prove to himself that Ian was real, that they both were. The stonewall of silence that Ian had built between them wouldn’t matter if Mickey could only reach out and touch him. 

Ian stared at him for a beat, then looked away. No words; a barely detectable shrug.

“You doin’ alright?” Mickey persisted. “Taking your pills?”

Silence. A slight clench of his jaw, and Ian’s chin was set in stubborn defiance. He wasn’t taking his pills; Mickey knew that obstinate face well. He even hated that face sometimes, but after three weeks in the can, three weeks without a word from Ian or anyone back home, he was almost grateful for it.

Mickey sighed and continued the conversation, swallowing down his anger. “Missed ya, man.”

“We broke up.”

Mickey looked away briefly, biting down on his bottom lip, masking the sting from Ian’s words and the conflicting relief that he had finally ended his silence. “If I weren’t in here.. you and I both know that we woulda..“ he glanced around cautiously; he never could be too careful about this kind of shit in prison. He continued, voice lowered, “you know we woulda sorted our shit out, got back together, Gallagher.”

“But you are in here,” Ian shrugged and sat back in his chair on the other side of the glass. He looked relaxed, casual, like he didn’t give one single fuck that Mickey was in prison. 

Mickey sighed, fighting the urge to scream, to smash the phone into the plexiglass as hard as he could. He’d do almost anything really, anything at all to force Ian to react, to kill the bitter stand-off between them, ending the awkward silence that Mickey was at a loss to explain.

“Fuck, man,” he started, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. He hadn’t wanted to say the words again, not for a third time, not when he knew for _absolute certain_ that Ian wasn’t going to say them back. But Mickey had nothing else. Fuck it. He lowered his voice further, barely above a whisper, “I.. I love you, Ian.”

Ian was silent again, his eyes meeting Mickey’s. Green on blue. And Mickey could have sworn he saw a flash of something in Ian’s pools of green. A softness, fondness even. Maybe even remorse. 

The buzzer sounded, unsympathetic and mocking, and the guards mobilised, yelling, ushering prisoners out of the room. The moment was lost; visiting hours were over. Ian broke eye contact with Mickey, replacing the phone on the holder quickly, as though it had suddenly become unbearable heat in his hand.

Inmates shuffled past Mickey’s chair, some of them with smiles, some angry and others looking downright pathetic. He watched them for a few seconds and wondered which one of the three he looked like. 

He turned back to face the glass, mouth open, his goodbye to Ian waiting on his lips, but Ian was gone.

* * *

“Yo, homie.. you really gonna do this?” 

Damon’s voice filtered through Mickey’s ears, weighty and insistent, but lacking any real impatience. Today was the day. Mickey remembered. He groaned, his arm heavy and warm against his eyes, head throbbing. Hungover. “Said I was,” he mumbled against his skin, head pounding as he spoke. There really was no hangover like a moonshine hangover.

“You one crazy gringo.”

Damon again. Broken english, softened by his Mexican accent, words rolling from his mouth and echoing slightly as they bounced against the cinder block walls of their cell. 

Damon seemed okay and Mickey figured he probably could have done worse for a cellmate. Considering everything he’d done, Damon didn’t seem as hardened as others in the joint with similar priors, and he was pleasant to Mickey, friendly even; his demeanour belying his rap sheet. Mickey respected that.

“Maybe,” Mickey grumbled, moving his arm slightly, letting a small amount of light filter into his eyes. Needles of daylight working their way in, waking him up, gradually, little by little, but still painful against his tired, dry eyes. 

“Must really love her, huh?” Damon asked, eyebrows raised.

“What?” Mickey’s brain was cotton wool, sluggish and slow, working at half-speed. Thinking fucking hurt.

“Your _esposa,_ man,” Damon gestured emphatically with his hands, a swirling action Mickey realised was meant to symbolise a woman. “Your wife.”

“This ain’t about my wife.” Mickey mumbled his irritation. He probably would have laughed if they were talking about anyone else, someone else’s life.

“Ahh, your _chilla,_ huh? Side piece,” Damon nodded knowingly, his voice a combination of impressed and amused. “Damn, _hombre_.. that’s some dedication.”

Mickey winced and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “Wife is the fucking side piece.”

Damon laughed, and Mickey made the resolve to slowly move, sitting up in his bunk, letting his aching body adjust slowly to its new position.

“Just need you to spot me, man,” he said, slinging his legs over the edge of the bed. _Don’t need a fucking interrogation_ , he had wanted to say, but Mickey was smart enough to know better than to start shit with a hitman he barely knew. “Make sure I don’t check out. Watch out for screws.”

“Gutiérrez left the shit in the spot, _si_ ,” Damon continued watching Mickey as he braced himself for the drop from his bunk bed to the floor. He shuddered as the impact shook and reverberated through his entire body to his aching head. He straightened slowly, limbs aching and bones creaking in hungover defiance.

“Aight,” Mickey grunted, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes and through his hair. “Let’s do this shit.”

* * *

Mickey sat in the last cubicle on the right in the C Block toilets, staring at his hands and the bizarre assortment of items he had fished from the cistern; paperclips, two small batteries, a pen and the half a dozen rubber bands that comprised the makeshift tattoo gun. Impressive, really. Necessity really was the motherfucker of all invention. The rest of the gear - a spoon, a lighter, a syringe, a cotton wool ball, a tourniquet and a zip lock bag half-filled with brown - was balanced on his lap. No surprises there. The way he had grown up, he was more than familiar with that shit.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, Ian flashing before them like a tragic rom-com he couldn't find it within himself to switch off. Red hair. Green eyes. Laughter. Tears. Mickey needed to centre himself. He needed to focus on why he was doing this.

_I just want everybody here to know, I'm fucking gay._

A grand gesture. It had worked that time, coming out at The Alibi when Ian had been inches away from walking out of Mickey’s life again for good. It really would have been the end of them that time, Mickey had known that; just when he’d got Ian back again, he would have lost him. So he’d stood there at the bar, and revealed himself to his homophobic father and everyone he knew and proven himself to Ian. Mickey hadn't even thought about it. He'd just done it. And it had worked. He'd held onto Ian and had fought once again against the tide that threatened to wash them away.

But nothing spelled the end like being sentenced to eight to fifteen years in the fucking joint. And now he had nothing left to profess, no cards in his hand, nothing he could give to Ian while he was behind bars, and nothing to offer Ian that he hadn’t already. _I care about you, I am here for you_ , _I love you_ ; the words had all been spoken, falling wasted in Ian’s lap, met with a cold indifference that Mickey couldn’t understand. 

But he could still see that glimmer in Ian’s eyes during his visit, the flash of something indefinable yet real enough that it gave Mickey hope. He held onto it, re-lived the final few seconds of Ian’s visit over and over in his mind, just to hold onto that look in Ian’s eye, to try and understand it, to remind himself that it was real, that he still meant something to Ian; that sliver of hope that they weren’t done, that they would never truly be done, that Ian would wait for him. So Mickey was upping his game. He had to make Ian see - had to at least _try_ to make him see that he was it for Mickey. There was no one else. There would never be anyone else. His heart belonged to Ian Gallagher.

The lighter hissed to life under his thumb and Mickey started cooking up with the expertise of someone who’d watched their own mother do the exact same thing a countless many times. He wrapped the tourniquet around his bicep, tight and firm, fist pumping. The needle was in place. Everything was ready. _He_ was ready. 

“You good, homie?” 

“M’fine,” Mickey winced through clenched teeth. He'd never been a fan of needles. 

One more deep breath, a bite upon his bottom lip and then it hit. The rush; a warmth consuming him from his toes to the hairs on his head, his body somehow heavy and weightless all at once. Suddenly he was laying in golden sunshine, hot-blooded and content, radiating heat inside himself and over everything he touched. A soft blanket of warmth and well being swaddled him, protecting him, caressing his broken heart, filling it with love and joy and heat - beautiful intoxicating heat. And Mickey could see, for the first time, that there was so much love in the world, so much beauty. Funny how he’d never noticed it before. Everything was beautiful, and everything was going to be okay. He wondered how he had ever even doubted it.

Mickey’s eyelids fluttered and his head rolled forward, heavy fingers curling around the tattoo gun. 

* * *

Mickey was back in his cell, stretched out in his bunk freefalling through a blissed out kind of half-sleep. He was detached, an abstraction, disassociated from everything that existed outside of his own body. He had no idea how long he had been laying there, or how long since the junk; it could have been a day, a week, even. Damon had come and gone from their cell, and the usual soundtrack of distant screaming from inmates and guards continued on without him in the stifling world beyond their stainless steel door.

The burning sensation which radiated fierce and throbbing, from the centre of Mickey’s chest joined his comedown from the gear; physical, visceral proof that he had done what he’d set out to do. Ian Gallagher was part of him now. _Gallagher._ Etched over his heart and under his skin; the grandest gesture, the only card he had left to play when his future was to be lived out within the cold, unsympathetic confines of the Chicago MCC.

“You look like shit, homie,” Damon remarked, standing to attention at their shared toilet, peeing.

“Feel like shit,” Mickey grumbled, his nose screwing up instinctively as the smell of urine filled the room, acrid and pungent. Fuck, he hated prison.

“That’s how it gets you, _si_?” Damon continued. “H make you better, huh? Until it don’t no more.” 

“Fuck that,” Mickey muttered. It had been a one time thing, a means to an end. Mickey Milkovich was many things, but a junkie waiting to happen was not fucking one of them.

“Three day rule, huh?”

Mickey sighed, barely invested in this conversation, but raised a curious eyebrow at his cellmate regardless.

“Three days,” Damon repeated. “Don’t do no more than every three days, and you stay good, huh? Don’t get hooked.”

“Ain’t touchin’ that shit again, don’t fucking worry.” 

Mickey sat up in bed, scooted off the edge of his bunk, feet meeting the floor with a heavy thud. He hissed as his movements caused friction between his wound and his prison issue singlet. His singlet was stained, blood seeping through the fabric. Crimson red ghosts of crude hand-lettering against stark institutional white.

“Fucking bleeding like a bitch,” he muttered blithely, pulling his singlet down to casually inspect his handiwork. It didn’t look like much, not from above at least, and he couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

“Ian… Ga- _lah_ -gah,” Damon mused. 

What. How the fuck did Damon know Ian’s full name? “Gallagher,” Mickey corrected.

Damon shook his head. “Ian Ga- _lah-_ gah,” he repeated. “Homie, you gotta dude’s name tattooed on your chest.”

Mickey’s mouth went dry, goosebumps erupting all over his body. He pulled his singlet down one more time and looked at his tattoo, really fucking looked at it this time.

_Ian Galager._

Fuck. Mickey took a step backwards, pushing up the sleeves on his orange jumpsuit. A defensive stance. Was this how it all ended; killed in his cell by his Mexican hitman cellmate? Nothing left of Mickey Milkovich but a hate-crime statistic that nobody would give a single fuck about?

“You like the dick, huh?” Damon shrugged and Mickey opened his mouth to disagree, to deny, deny, deny. But after so long, years even, not caring who knew about him, about him and Ian, the words took longer to surface.

“Me? Don’t give a fuck ‘bout that shit, man. But this is prison, homie. You don’t wanna advertise that here.”

Mickey ran a hand through his hair. He knew that. Of course he fucking _knew_ that. But he didn’t even remember giving himself the tattoo now. He knew he had, because he’d been thinking of nothing else, but remember it? No, he had no recollection of anything past that goddamn needle in his arm. Though apparently something in the junk had convinced him it was a good idea to inscribe Ian’s first name. Ignoring the small matter of spelling Ian’s surname wrong, Mickey still had a guy’s name tattooed on his chest. He was done for. Made.

“I don’t care, homie,” Damon repeated, hands raised in surrender, and Mickey let the words sink in that time. Damon didn’t care, didn’t give a fuck. 

“I’ll tell ‘em it’s my fuckin’ son’s name, aight,” Mickey said defensively, old armour resurfacing as a matter of survival. “No one fucking knows.”

“Maybe that works,” Damon nodded, narrowing his eyes, appraising Mickey thoughtfully. “But you need harder look, man. That pretty hair.. grow it out, some shit like that. Messy better and you look like a hard motherfucker.”

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip and considered this. Grow his hair. Was that it? Whether he lived or died in this shithole or became permanently unfortunate in the shower was as simple as growing out his hair? Fuck it, then. That’s what he’d do, he’d grow his hair.

“Ian will like it, _si_?” Damon asked, waving his hand in the air above his own chest. “The tatt.”

A wave of nausea washed over him, and Mickey shrugged. After everything he’d done; the planning, scoring the gear, shooting it, fucking tattooing himself - he _shrugged_. Because the tattoo didn’t look how he’d imagined it in his head, and it wasn’t even spelled correctly. Mickey forced himself to remember that spark in Ian’s eyes during his last visit; fleeting, miniscule and barely there. But Mickey had seen it, and he’d hedged his bets on it. Ian would see the tattoo and he’d know that he was _it_ for Mickey. He would ignite that spark in Ian’s eyes, turn it into fire and they would wait for each other. Eight years. Ten, maybe.

“Better fucking like it,” Mickey replied, forcing a laugh, nervous, defensive.

Damon laughed in return, before grabbing a book from their desk and sprawling his large frame on the bottom bunk. “You a crazy motherfucker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Intravenous drug use. This is not a graphic scene and Mickey only does this once.
> 
>  Sorry this was so sad! I wrote it over time and because I knew how it played out I underestimated the extent of the sad feels. The next chapters are much happier, I promise; Mickey gets nice things :) 
> 
> Okay, let's talk about that damn tattoo. I cannot stand that Shameless writers now say the tattoo was just a 'joke' they threw in and Mickey doesn't have it because they 'dropped that storyline'. Ok, sure. Well that tattoo threw the fandom into turmoil and maybe the Shameless brains trust can dismiss it, but I can't. 
> 
> So in this fic, Mickey has the tattoo and I'm going to redeem the shit out of it. This tattoo is life-changing for Mickey and that's all I'm going to say at this point. 
> 
> I know this wasn't a particularly uplifting chapter, but I had to get it out of the way. The next chapter is set in Mexico in the present and will be happier!
> 
> Hit me up on the tumblr I created for this fic: [mickeyxmexico.tumblr.com](https://mickeyxmexico.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Beach

“What? You wanna fuckin’ cuddle or some shit?” Mickey yells as he turns around to face the nameless twenty something who had spent the last ten minutes fucking Mickey into back of his couch, “vete a la mierda!”. _Fuck off._ Mickey slides his boxers on and stalks over to the front door, opens it. 

“Lo siento,” the guy says hastily, eyes darting around, unsure. He has shoes in one hand, belt and jeans held together in the other as he dashes out the door. “Lo siento, muy siento,” _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._

Mickey releases the front door, smirks as it falls closed, thinking once again that the language for outstaying a welcome is universal. The same in anyone’s fucking language. He grabs his cigarettes and pads outside to sit on the back steps. The tiles lining his living room floor are cool and hard underfoot and sometimes they still remind him of prison. But he pinches himself, because this life he has now, this precarious freedom, is very much real.

The Mexico air is warm as it always is, tussling the ends of his hair as the seabreeze wafts over him. He stares up at the sky and inhales deeply. It’s been four months since Mickey crossed the border. Four months since he last saw Ian, and four months since his heart was ripped out of his chest, torn and scattered, left in pieces on the roadside somewhere in the deserted nomansland between Texas and Mexico. 

Mickey takes a long drag of his cigarette. A lot has happened in that time; he’s found somewhere to live, bought actual furniture, scored himself himself a job, made a couple of friends. He’s started showering like he used to back before he wound up in the joint; taking his time, closing his eyes and letting the water flow over him until the heat runs cold. There's no need to rush anymore, no predatory eyes raking over his body, sizing him up, so he really savours it. He’s become accustomed to the night time silences; the absence of angry, screaming prisoners is no longer heavy and suffocating and he sleeps now without leaving the tv on. And Mickey’s bedroom, the alley ways behind clubs and the toilets at the bar where he works have become a revolving door of anonymous dick. 

There's really nothing in the list of dubious accomplishments that surprises him. Sure, having a steady job and a couple of friends is a first for him. But he always knew he could have those things if he wanted them. He’s always been able to make the best of even the most truly fucked up situation so he never doubted himself. No, the most remarkable thing to happen to Mickey since he’s been in Mexico, is giving up on Ian; finally allowing himself to accept that Ian is gone for good. He no longer clings to the last remaining thread of hope that Ian will change his mind and be waiting on his doorstep one day after work. That was always unlikely to happen, Mickey knew that, but the rational part of his brain was never any match for the relentless ache where his heart used to be, for the pain that Ian had left him with that he so desperately wanted to quell. So that vague notion, _the possibility_ that Ian would change his mind was too comforting to throw away. It patched his wounds, kept him warm at night, and soothed the nausea that rose in his stomach every morning when he woke and pieced together the reality that Ian was back in Chicago, while Mickey was in Mexico, a fugitive. Alone. 

The day Mickey realised he’d accepted that Ian wasn’t coming back had started off unremarkable like all the others. The sun had risen in the morning, sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, needling him awake with its light and warmth. He had made breakfast, taken a walk along the beach, watched a Mexican telenovela and killed time smoking weed with Sofia from next door, until it was time for work. His shift at the bar had been long and uneventful. He served customers, responded begrudgingly as tourists asked him for directions or shared their most definitely unsolicited opinions on everything from tequila to the fucking space program. But that night when he returned home from his shift, the tightness in his chest and the lump that would rise in his throat like clockwork when he returned home to his empty house, had gone. Ian wasn’t there waiting for him, because Ian was never going to be there. 

Instead of sadness that Ian had left him in body and now in spirit, Mickey felt strangely relieved. Free. Unburdened, lighter somehow _._ And when he opened his front door and stepped inside, he felt changed. Transformed. At some point during his time in Mexico the hurt Ian had left him with had started to dissipate, so slowly that he hadn't even noticed at first. 

The vague hope that Ian would change his mind had finally faded. Mickey tested this theory by thinking of Ian; his lips, his eyes, his first and final _I love you._ A a vague, aching pinch in his gut and a short breathy exhale is all that remained of the spark, that fire he’d left burning for Ian inside of himself. Maybe that would change if Ian walked back into Mickey’s life in that exact moment, but as things stood right then - the two of them finished, done - the wound that Ian had left him was smaller, the pain was manageable. Slowly and surely the hurt, the battle scars that had patched his wounds had been shed like a skin, leaving something new and different in its place. Mickey was healing.

After everything, prison, the junk, the tattoo, the despair and anger; Mickey has finally made it through. Because the hope he clinged to for him and Ian had been holding him back. Now that he’s finally let Ian go, he’s free and he’s emerged from the darkness feeling okay. Not great, but _okay_. 

Mickey finishes off his second cigarette and flicks the butt at his feet, exhaling the stream of smoke, his fingers moving absently across his chest, fingering the area where his past is etched upon him, deep and immovable. That fucking tattoo. He feels almost at peace with everything that happened between him and Ian, aside from that tattoo. He tries to tell himself it’s not that bad, that people regret their tattoos all the time, that as far as tattoos go, how he feels about his own is probably almost normal. But Mickey can never convince himself; he knows it’s ugly, that it looks like prison, like remorse and desperation and he wishes it was just a bad dream. Still, Mickey feels better than he has in a long fucking time, and everyday that passes he finds himself inching away from the broken version of himself that tattooed Ian’s name upon his own chest, towards something, some _one_ else. 

Mickey swooshes the final dregs of his beer around in his mouth and tosses the bottle carelessly towards the garbage bin. There’s still a few hours before his shift at the bar and he’s bored. He needs a fucking hobby. Something more interesting than chasing random Mexican dick around the city. Not that he doesn’t enjoy that, he definitely does. But he has actual spare time now for the first time in his life and it seems a shame to waste it.

The screen door of the adjoining house opens and Mickey turns his head in interest towards the familiar sound, the metal door yawning and creaking, springing back upon its hinges and crashing against the frame. Sofia is home.

“Yo, Sofia,” he calls out. He approaches the brick wall that separates their backyards. “Tiempo para la playa?” _Time for the beach?_

“Lo siento,” comes Sofia’s response from behind the wall. “Ahora tengo que estudiar,” _I have to study now._

Mickey furrows his brow, tries to remember the Spanish words he needs for his response. Fuck it, Sofia’s english is good. “You need help with that shit?” Christ, he really is bored.

“Principles of thermodynamics, Mickey,” she replies, laughing, “no matemáticas.”

Mickey pauses for a minute, thermo-what? English words that somehow sound even more foreign to him than Spanish. “Fuck that shit, whatever it is,” he yells, “you’re on your own.”

Sofia laughs. “I thought so! Mañana?” _Tomorrow,_ she asks. “I’ll come over, si?”

Mickey nods out of habit, but they can’t see each other; the walls that separate their yards are too high. “Yeah,” he says, but then shakes his head, corrects himself, “ _si_. Later.”

* * *

A ribbon of long leaves slither with the current over Mickey’s foot and he shivers in disgust, the sliver of plant snaking itself around his toes. He shakes his foot awkwardly, freeing his toes from the vile clutches of the dark green slime. Seaweed; it’s the worst fucking thing about the beach as far as Mickey is concerned, and the one thing nobody ever warns about. 

But seaweed or no, Mickey loves the beach. He loves being in the water, loves the way the sound carries over the waves, loves drinking tequila there at night with Sofia. And he still finds it kind of weird, because he’s never really loved a _thing_ before, never really loved doing anything before. He’s used to doing things out of necessity; fighting, hustling, thinking up his next scam. Spare time for Mickey, was always fleeting moments wedged between drug deals and serving beat-downs - sometimes receiving them. But now he has more of it than he knows what to do with. So much spare time that he’s actually realised there are things that he really enjoys doing, can’t imagine not being able to do. The beach was always a pipe dream, a detail in his plan of life after prison. Maybe a small part of him hadn’t even even believed he’d actually set foot on Mexico sand. But now it feels less like a detail and more like an endgame; _sun all year round, tequila, the beach_ \- he’s there.

Saltwater laps around Mickey’s chin and he realises he’s waded out too far. It isn’t that he’s scared of the water, fuck no. He just can’t can’t swim, still hasn’t learned. And his self-preservation instinct is strong, always has been, and heeding that instinct has served him well. So it’s not that he’s afraid, he just feels more at ease, less likely to drown, if he doesn’t wade out too deep. A wave rolls towards him and he times his slow wade back to shallow waters with the tide, using the momentum of the wave to push himself forward. 

The familiar tickle of seaweed returns as another piece curls its way around his ankle. “Fucksake,” he curses, and he flails his leg around in the water. But something is different, something feels wrong, because now the seaweed is snaking its way up his leg. Past his calf, his knee, his thigh. 

Mickey hears a scream, a loud, chortled cry of “FUCK!” and it takes him a second but he realises the sound has come from his own mouth. And then Mickey feels the horrific burning in his thigh, the pain that is everywhere and nowhere all at once and he’s reminded of Snicker’s bars and stealing from fucking towelhead back in the day. He’s been shot, - he must have been shot because something has happened to his thigh and it feels exactly like that time Kash lost his shit and emptied his gun at Mickey’s leg.

He lurches forward, stumbling awkwardly through the waves, teeth digging mercilessly into his bottom lip in a vain attempt to disperse the pain. It has to be the feds; they’ve hunted him down and shot him in the fucking thigh to incapacitate him. He’s in too much pain to run, so he closes his eyes, grunting and cursing through with every lurching step he makes over the sand. This is it; this is how they get him. 

The burning in his leg has intensified to an unbearable level and he stops, just stands in the middle of the fucking beach and waits for that familiar feeling of being forced onto his knees and the cold, clinical grab of handcuffs around his wrists. But it doesn’t happen. There are no feds, no one yelling for him to freeze, no sounds of firearms being cocked. Mickey slowly opens his eyes. The pain is blinding but he knows it’s just him standing on the sand, doubled over in pain, a bullet hole in his leg, and a beach full of people who for some reason couldn’t give a shit that someone has just been shot in broad daylight right in front of them.

“Picados por medusas,” someone says, and Mickey blinks heavily, seeing stars as another wave of burning heat radiates from his thigh.

“Picados por medusas,” the voice says again, and this time the owner of the voice is standing in front of him, reaching out, a hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “Estás bien?”

“Speak fucking english!” Mickey recoils from the hand upon his shoulder, doesn't want to be fucking touched right now. Whoever it is can fuck right off.

“It’s jellyfish sting,” the stranger says, all English words and thick Mexican accent, “you got stung, mi amigo.”

Mickey arches an eyebrow, forces his eyes to focus and looks down at his shorts. There’s no holes or rips in the fabric, no physical evidence of a bullet wound and where blood should be running down his leg, a spidery network of burning skin has inched its way down his thigh to his knee instead, like a large pink artery.

“What the fuck?” he says in disbelief, and then the stranger, a male, is on his knees and is rolling Mickey’s shorts up to his groin, exposing the angry, burning vein of a wound and the thin blue string of tentacles attached to his skin.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Mickey snaps, tries to yank his thigh out of reach of the stranger, but the guy has a hand placed firmly on the back of Mickey’s knee. He’s not going anywhere.

“Gotta remove this shit,” the guy says, picking at the tentacles with a thumb and forefinger, “remove the.. the stingers.”

Mickey bites his lip and hisses quietly in pain as the guy begins pulling tentacles from his leg, flicking them on the sand. The pain subsides slightly; not a lot, but just enough to chase away the stars that clouded his eyesight. Mickey looks down at the guy, really looks at him for the first time; black hair to his shoulders, olive skin, shirtless, tattoos. So many tattoos. Mickey counts the ones he can make out - a woman’s face on one bicep, a sailboat on the other, a line of flowing script across his left collarbone.

“Come with me now, I know how to treat this,” the guy stands up, gestures behind him with a nod of his head and Mickey’s eyes rake over the stranger from head to toe. 

He’s tall and lean, rib bones shadowing slightly against the skin of his torso, with just the right amount of muscle that Mickey likes. He looks good. Really fucking good. Mickey licks his lips, an involuntary response, and looks up at the guy’s face for the first time. He’s pretty; all plump lips curling into a cheeky half smile, a nose ring, two of them in fact, and almond-shaped brown eyes flickering with.. something. Mickey isn’t sure what it is exactly he can see behind this stranger’s eyes, but he likes it. Holy fucking shit, he really likes it alot. 

Mickey raises an eyebrow, scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “The fuck?” he asks, “Come with you where?”

The guy grins, tongue darting out between his teeth, playful. “My car is close. I live nearby. I can fix this.”

Mickey shrugs. “It don't even fucking hurt no more,” he says, stifling a wince, no idea why he just lied like that because it really does still hurt, still burns like a motherfucker.

“It will hurt for a long time,” the guy says, brown eyes lingering on Mickey for a beat too long, making eye contact, licking his lips. “I’ll fix you.”

Mickey knows that look. He knows it well. Still, he considers rejecting the offer one more time, but instead he nods, limps over to where he dumped his belongings. Maybe once the pain goes away, they can squeeze in a quick fuck back at this guy’s place. 

“I’m Raúl,” the guy says, tongue purring around the R sound. 

Raúl. _Raúl._ Rah-ool. Mickey likes the name, thinks it suits him, but he doesn’t understand why this even matters to him all of a sudden.

“Mickey,” he finally replies, and they walk to Raúl’s car in silence. 

* * *

Mickey leans back on the couch, watching as Raúl kneels between his legs, resting one elbow on Mickey’s good leg, while dabbing a steaming hot, wet compress on the his burning thigh. Raúl’s involvement in this act is unnecessary, Mickey is sure of it; he is more than capable of applying the washer to the sting himself, thinks he should probably tell him to stop, that he can take it from here. The words are there, on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force them from his mouth. Raúl’s warm breath brushing against the skin of his thigh and the measured, gentle heat he’s applying to the skin mere inches from his dick feels too good to pass up.

“Feels better, yeah?” Raúl asks, looking up at Mickey briefly, his tongue darting out from his mouth, licking at his plump pink lips. “Jellyfish burns so badly, but still - heat makes it better. Weird, huh?”

Mickey hums in agreement and turns his head, looks away. It does feel better. He’s feeling great; his dick is fucking hard and throbbing beneath his shorts. It’s all he can do to stop himself from sliding his hand underneath his waistband and playing with himself, just allowing himself a bit of relief until this charade or foreplay or whatever the fuck, is over so he and Raúl can get on with the business of fucking. Because that’s why Mickey is here, it has to be why Raúl invited him over, and why the guy is sitting between his legs devoting the kind of attention to Mickey’s thigh area that usually only means one thing.

Raúl runs a hand through his hair, and Mickey watches as the wavy black strands fall around his chin and shoulder, his eyes following Raúl’s long fingers as they reach up, pushing the hair back behind his ear absently. Mickey thinks about those fingers around his dick, working him slowly, Raúl’s thumb rubbing over his slit, fingers slipping inside him, getting him ready-

“Tourists,” Raúl says with a laugh, lips curling up into a lopsided smile, “you be careful in the water, yeah? Lots of jellies this time of year.”

Mickey huffs quietly, broken from his fantasy. “Not a tourist,” he snaps back, though he doesn’t know why he finds the assumption as offensive as he does. It’s not as if he was born in Mexico, certainly shouldn't even be here at all. “I live here.”

“Ahh, sorry, gringo,” Raúl says, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, all playful eyebrows and a sparkle behind his eyes, as he works to fold Mickey’s shorts leg higher, revealing more of his soft, injured flesh. Mickey hisses as Raúl moves the wet cloth further up his leg, the entire wounded area now covered. Raúl’s lips purse and a whistling sound escapes his mouth. “That jelly, he really got you good.”

That’s it, Mickey can’t take it anymore. If they’re going to fuck, it needs to happen now or not at all. “So are we just gonna sit-.” But he’s interrupted when a drop of water starts inching down to the inside of his thigh, and Raúl presses a finger onto his flesh, catching the drip, tracing it back the same way it travelled over Mickey’s skin. Fuck. Mickey feels his lips parting, his tongue running along the side of his mouth, and he exhales shakily. He closes his eyes, imagines Raúl’s finger between his lips, in his mouth, his tongue sliding over it, sucking the water from his skin.

“Think I’m good, man,” Mickey opens his eyes, looks at Raúl from underneath his eyelashes. Eye contact, a shiver up Mickey’s spine. “It ain’t stinging...” but his voice trails off as he realises just how ridiculous he is right now. Raúl is just some random guy, a stranger, nondescript and replaceable, like all the others. Just because this one has a name doesn’t mean Mickey needs to get all weird about him, fantasising, ogling, thinking about that perfect face and those pretty lips against his own, how his breath would feel against the back of his neck- 

Raúl looks away, looks down briefly as he places a palm against the flesh of Mickey’s uninjured leg. “Your skin..” he starts, licking his lips, eyes meeting Mickey’s as his hand slides slowly towards Mickey’s dick, “is really soft.”

“Fuck,” the word falls breathlessly from Mickey’s mouth but he’s not thinking anymore, just feeling, wanting, needing this guy in any way he can have him. His dick stirs, throbs impatiently, painfully almost, and Mickey looks down at where it rests beneath his shorts. The bulge is obvious, there’s no mistaking the effect Raúl is having on him. Mickey thinks he even sees it move; his cards are on the table, he has no secrets. Mickey is hot for this guy.

He swallows heavily, as Raúl’s hand finds his cheek, turning Mickey’s head towards him as he leans in. They’re going to kiss and Mickey feels his stomach fluttering, twisting. A spark he thought had long since been extinguished reignites, starts smouldering in his gut and slowly spreading heat over his body. But Mickey can’t kiss this guy, can’t go there, no matter how much he might think he wants to in the heat of the moment. Fucking is a means to an end, but kissing - kissing is something else, something more. They can fuck, but Mickey won’t kiss him, won’t open himself up to.. _that_ again. 

There is a crashing sound, metal against metal, keys in a lock and a whoosh as the door to Raúl’s apartment opens and a gust of hot air fills the living room. Mickey inhales sharply, Raúl springs back on his haunches. The moment has been lost, the kiss didn’t happen, and now that it's off the table Mickey isn’t sure how he feels about it.

“Hola,” Raúl says, and he lifts his hand up in a lazy wave, moves quickly to sit on the couch next to Mickey, their knees touching. “Este es Alejandra. Mi compañera de cuarto y mejor amiga.” _This is my roommate and best friend, Alejandra._

“Yo,” Mickey replies, turning his head, taking in a pretty girl with black hair and large, dark eyes, “I mean, hola.. hey. Whatever the fuck.”

Raúl laughs and shoots a knowing look in Mickey’s direction, then back at his roommate. “Este es mi amigo, Mickey.” _This is my friend, Mickey._

“Hola,” Alejandra says, eyes flickering in Mickey’s direction, eyeing him suspiciously, “tener cuidado, Raúl, si?” _Be careful._ She throws a ziplock baggie full of weed over their heads and onto the coffee table as she skulks past them, disappearing down a hallway, “Luego. Adiós.” 

“Alejandra is a student at universidad,” Raúl laughs, bumps his knee against Mickey’s, “they are sometimes very grumpy.”

Mickey hums, thinks about Sofia and her fits of anxiety when she struggles with her math assignments, tries to think about _almost anything_ other than the warmth of Raúl’s leg against his own, and the erection still aching inside his pants. He quickly rearranges himself through his shorts, times the movement with a shimmy of his hips.

Raúl shifts slightly, turns to face Mickey, arm resting against the back couch. Raúl’s fingers are inches away from his neck and Mickey doesn’t know whether to lean into the touch to try and get the ball rolling again, or leave, never to return.

“Cool tatts,” Raúl says, nodding towards Mickey’s knuckles. “Fuck.. You.. Up.”

Mickey huffs a laugh, surprised; he forgets they are even there sometimes. “Oh,” he shrugs, “they’re old. Did ‘em ages ago.” He sneaks a glance at Raúl and catches his eyebrows as they raise in disbelief. The edges of Mickey’s mouth work their way into a half smile and he relaxes a little, leans back on the couch, watches Raúl’s face.

“You do them?” Raúl asks. “You tattoo them yourself?”

Mickey nods, then shrugs. “When I was thirteen.”

“Wow, no shit!” Raúl laughs, and Mickey thinks this guy has a great laugh. It’s playful and real; the kind that makes Mickey want to laugh along with him, contagious. “Did it hurt?”

“Nah,” Mickey shakes his head, sucks in his bottom lip, eyes shifting to Raúl’s, then looking away, “was real fucked up at the time.”

Raúl nods. “You lost the fight with the jellyfish,” he laughs quietly, teasing, “but do your own tattoos, huh? That's pretty badass, Mickey.” 

This guy. Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah?” his eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, disbelieving, “how many of those fifty fucking tats you do yourself, huh?”

“There’s twenty-eight,” Raúl corrects him, runs a hand through his hair, completes the action with the tuck behind his ear, “but I didn’t do any myself.”

“Pussy.” Mickey grins, looks down at his U-UP hand, cracking his knuckles nervously. Raúl laughs - that damn laugh again - and Mickey swallows heavily as he feels that pleasant twist in his gut once more. Best just to ignore that, pretend it never happened. 

“Wanna smoke a joint?” Raúl nods towards the bag of weed sitting in front of them, grins, eyebrows wriggling.

Mickey pauses, licks his lips, considering it. He may as well - it’s not like he has anything better to do before his shift starts. He shrugs. “Sure, whatever.”

There’s a silence as Raúl fumbles around with the weed, starts rolling the joint and Mickey watches his fingers, long and olive skinned, silver rings on a couple of them which Mickey would normally find gay as hell, but on Raúl, it works - looks pretty fucking cool actually. Raúl pauses, fingers frozen on the joint, partially finished, shooting a sideways glance at Mickey. Mickey chews on the inside of his lip, looks away. Caught staring. That’s fucking embarrassing.

Now that he’s no longer distracted with Raúl’s weird foreplay or whatever that was, his eyes wander around Raúl’s living room. It’s small, older than Mickey’s place, but better decorated, which really isn’t saying much. There’s the usual; tv, speakers, game consoles, coffee table. And then there’s posters taped on the wall, some of them with words in Spanish, others of people and bands that seem familiar but with names that Mickey doesn’t know or can’t remember. There’s a poster of with Mexican skulls and roses and something written in Spanish, and Mickey thinks that’s kind of badass, and a framed picture of that Mexican artist woman with the eyebrows that he sees everywhere down here. In the corner of the room is an open laptop on a desk and next to it, a guitar. Mickey doesn’t know much about guitars, but he knows when he sees a nice one. And that is one fucking nice guitar. 

“Aquí está” _Here it is._ Raúl hands Mickey the joint and the lighter, and he takes it, flicking it a couple of times before it hisses to life under his thumb. He can feel Raúl’s eyes on him, watching him as he takes a hit, inhales, leans his head back on the couch. He passes the joint back, exhaling smoke and clearing his throat slightly.

“How long you live here for, Mickey?” Raúl says around the side of the joint. “In Mexico.” 

Mickey’s throat tightens and his pulse becomes heavy, beating hard in his neck. He hates this question, hates having to answer it. It’s not the lie that bothers him so much as the need to sound convincing. He’s lied plenty of times in his life before this, never gave a fuck who believed him; the stakes were always lower. Being a fugitive is a high risk, high reward game and the stakes are everything now. 

Mickey closes his eyes, avoids eye contact - it's easier that way. “Around four months.”

Raúl hums. “Thought so,” and he nudges Mickey with his elbow, passes the joint back to him.

He thought so? Mickey swallows thickly, takes a deep breath, tries to relax his throat. “Why?”

“Your Spanish, man,” Raúl explains, rolls his eyes and chuckles, “and maybe the way you scream at me to _speak fucking english_.”

Raúl laughs again and Mickey feels the corners of his mouth being pulled into a grin, a quiet bubble of laughter tickling him in his chest. He takes another hit from the joint, breathes deeply, holds it for one, two three, seconds, lets the breath relax him. “Yeah well,” he says through his smoky exhale, “being eaten alive by a goddamn jellyfish kinda made me forget I'm tryin’a be bilingual.”

Raúl turns his head, looks at Mickey. Eye contact for one beat, two. “That jellyfish took your tatts as a challenge instead of threat,” he smirks, fingers brushing against Mickey’s as he takes the joint, ”should high five him for his bravery.”

Mickey laughs, an actual loud, genuine laugh and he tries to recall the last time he sat around like this with someone, hanging out, completely at ease. Sure, he hangs out with Sofia but she’s a chick and he doesn’t understand them, is never quite able to shake that feeling of awkwardness. No, it must have been before he went to prison, that summer before everything went to shit. He stops himself from thinking about.. all that. There’s no point. Something about sitting here with this guy he barely knows feels strangely good and right. It just does. He doesn’t need to think about why, or how, or when was the last time he’d felt anything like this. And he’s pretty sure Raúl is flirting with him, so he has that to think about because he has no idea what to make of it, how to even respond. Should he respond? 

“You're a fucking smartass, you know that?” he says, no heat behind his words.

“Yeah,” Raúl nods, bumping his knee against Mickey’s once again, “a real _pinche conijo_. That’s how you say it in Mexico, Mickey.”

“ _Pinche conijo_ , huh,” Mickey repeats the words, rolls them around in his head, tries to commit them to memory. “Why’s your english so fucking good anyways?”

Mickey watches Raúl’s lips, those fucking lips, close around the joint, watches as he takes a long drag, and removes the joint from his lips with a loud pop. “Studied it in school,” Raúl says, exhales smoke, “top of my class.”

“Oh,” Mickey nods, smirking, “a fucking smartass and a nerd.”

There’s silence as they pass the joint back and forth between each other. It’s a comfortable silence, which Mickey finds strange because he can’t usually stand those quiet spaces, the lulls in conversation, because he feels pressure to make small talk and he’s not good at small talk, can't be fucking bothered with it. But this, sitting here with Raúl - smoking a joint and talking this - feels comfortable. So comfortable he’s almost forgotten that he thought they’d be fucking, or would have fucked by now. Almost. His eyes fall upon the guitar again and he tries to decide if it belongs to Raúl or the girl - the roommate. Alexandra? Alejandra? Whatever. 

“That your guitar?” Mickey asks and he surprises himself, wasn’t planning on asking, doesn’t understand why he even cares. 

Raúl nods, Mickey sees him out of the corner of his eye. “Not just any guitar,” he says, smiles from the side of his mouth, “My favourite guitar. My _bebé_. My _numero uno_.” 

Mickey thinks about that guitar he had back in Chicago, the one Iggy stole from some bougie house over on the Northside that time. “I had a guitar once,” he says and he immediately feels stupid, because he’s high, so fucking high, and that seemed like a perfectly interesting thing to say, “it was black. I only know like four fucking chords.” 

“Some of the greatest songs ever written have only four fucking chords,” Raúl says without skipping a beat, matter-of-fact, confident. “Sometimes all you need is a guitar and four fucking chords.”

Mickey snorts and he knows he’s really fucking high, because he finds that bit of information fascinating and hilarious for absolutely no real reason at all. “No shit?” 

Raúl passes the last tiny half-inch of joint to Mickey, smiling at him, brown eyes lighting up his face. “No shit.” 

And suddenly they’re both laughing like a pair of fucking teenage girls. Mickey doesn’t know what they’re laughing at or why- all he knows is it feels good, really fucking good in his stomach to laugh like this; genuine, full belly laughs, the kind that makes Mickey’s stomach ache, his eyes water. 

Raúl relaxes against the back of the couch next to Mickey and their shoulders, arms, thighs are lightly touching. Mickey swallows heavily, trying to ignore the heat from the contact, that relentless twisting in his gut. He tries to remind himself that this guy is a nobody, he’s nothing, he’s just like all the others. Raúl rests an arm across the back of the couch and Mickey stifles a laugh. Real subtle. 

“Uhhh, tengo hambre,” Raúl groans, hand on his stomach, brown eyes staring into blue, “so hungry. You wanna come get some food with me, Mickey?”

Mickey freezes, sits forward on the couch, tries to distract himself with his phone. What the fuck? Did he just get asked on a fucking date? Whatever. It doesn’t matter because he needs to be at work in forty minutes, and he’s already high as fuck, he really doesn’t need to be late too.

“Gotta go to work, man,” he says, standing up, heading towards the door. “Thanks for fixing my leg and.. the weed and shit.” 

Mickey has one hand on the doorknob, when Raúl stops him, and olive-skinned hand on his shoulder, and Mickey turns around, faces him, eyes raking over Raúl’s tall, tattooed frame one last time. Too bad they never got around to fucking.

“Espera, no te vallas,” Raúl says, _Wait, don’t go._ “Can I have your number?”

Mickey’s stomach twists, except it doesn’t really twist so much as it somersalts and a shiver runs up his spine. “My number?” he repeats, scoffing and he feels like he’s been torn in half. Torn directly down the middle by the desire to give Raúl his number, to give in to the connection, that pull that he’s felt between them all afternoon, and the urge to close himself off, shield himself from whatever pain and suffering will ultimately come from letting his guard down. 

Mickey chews on his lip as Raúl looks at him, hopeful brown eyes and a lopsided smile. He could give Raúl his number or he could tell him to fuck off and walk out the door. It’s a simple fucking choice. He settles for a response that sits somewhere in the middle, puts the ball back in his own court.

“Don't need to,” he says, licking his lips, holding eye contact, “I know where you fucking live.”

* * *

Mickey is barely halfway to the corner of Raúl’s street when he stops, considers going back to the apartment, saying fuck it all and letting Raúl fuck him; letting that six foot tall tattooed guitar playing weirdo do whatever the hell he wants with him.

But he doesn’t. 

Mickey can’t go down that road again. Not when Raúl also wants to kiss and hang out and do things like going out and grabbing dinner. That’s too much like.. it’s too much like what he had before with Ian, too much like that life that was ripped away from them over and over again; the life that ended with Mickey in prison and a self-inflicted tattoo festering on his chest. 

He’s put all that shit behind him now; he doesn’t need it, doesn’t need anyone.

Mickey pulls out his phone, taps his address into google maps and follows the directions home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! If you made it to the end of this chapter, thanks!! I know that Mickey x OMC isn't for everyone and some people may have rage-quit at some point while Mickey was still at the beach.
> 
> If you've been following along on tumblr, this is the story of how Mickey met Raul and we'll learn more about his backstory and life before Mickey and obviously Mickey and Raul together. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, Raul is a character I created for Mickey on tumblr and he has a bit of a following now. Raul is a cool guy, and they will be great together so pleaaseeee give this story a chance! 
> 
> Creating this Mexico universe with Mickey and Raul has really helped heal the pain of Shameless for me, so maybe reading it will also help you! 
> 
> Here's Raul's smoking hot face claim. MEOW;  
> 


	4. Something, Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Raúl meet again

Mickey sucks on Raúl’s bottom lip, presses their lips together, his tongue slipping inside, licking into his mouth, drawing a deep ragged groan from Raúl as he sinks down, slowly so slowly, stifling his own moans. Mickey exhales loudly at the pressure and the stretch and that fucking beautiful dull burn, that sweet fullness. They look at each other briefly, brown eyes on blue, and then there are lips pressing against lips, biting, tongues searching for something indefinable, and the lush, wet sound of desperate, greedy kisses. Mickey shifts slightly, savouring the feeling of Raúl inside him. He rocks upwards, almost takes Raúl all the way out, almost, but he doesn’t because he needs this, needs Raúl inside him and he’s too hungry, thought about this too fucking much to do anything but sink back down. Mickey hisses and Raúl groans as he bottoms out, groans again as Mickey rocks back upwards, downwards, again and again slowly fucking himself.

Raúl pulls his lips away with a wet popping sound. “Feel so good,” he pants against Mickey’s neck, “so good Mickey,” and he slides his hands down to Mickey’s ass cheeks, fingers digging into soft flesh, following the rhythm of Mickey’s thrusts as he rides him. It does feel good - so fucking good, it feels better than the fantasy, better than he’d imagined it since they’d met at the beach, feels better than anything he’s felt.. in a very long time. But fuck the past - he can't even remember it now. This is where Mickey begins and ends; fucking himself on Raúl as if his life depends on it.

Mickey throws his head back, feels Raúl’s lips against his neck, his chest, kissing, licking at the sweat beading on his skin. He hisses as he thrusts down hard, grazes his sweet spot, sees fucking stars. _Stars._ “Fuck,” the words leave Mickey’s mouth a mewl, wanting and needy, but he doesn’t care because right in this moment, he is needy. He repeats the motion, desperate, chasing that feeling, that sweet fucking shot of bliss that he feels deep inside him and over his skin to his dick, that bliss that makes his toes curl. 

Raúl’s hands are on Mickey’s hips, moving him - no, fucking _controlling_ him - taking him over, rocking him up and then down, over and over. And Mickey lets him; closes his eyes and just lets Raúl have at him. Raúl hits that spot again and again, filling Mickey so perfectly. Harder, faster. He’s speaking in Spanish, babbling, gibberish probably. Mickey has no idea what Raúl is saying but bliss and ecstasy sounds the same in anyone’s fucking language - that much he does know.

And then there’s a sound, shrill and urgent, somehow everywhere and nowhere all at once. What the fuck is that? What is happening? Mickey opens his eyes, blinks. And just like that Raúl is gone. He looks around him, eyes coming into focus, and he realises he’s completely alone, laying in his own bed, a film of sweat covering his body, his dick hard and throbbing, aching between his legs.

Not again. Another fucking dream. Mickey curses himself and shoots an arm out of bed, blindly, turns off the alarm. He pinches his nose between his eyes and groans; emotions caught somewhere between disappointment and utter disgust at himself. How many times has this happened to him now? This dream, him and Raúl fucking each other fifty different ways to Sunday. It’s been two weeks since he met Raúl at the beach and he’s had the dream ten, maybe twelve times since. And those are only the times he can remember. But the very worst thing about these dreams, is they are never just fucking. No, there’s soft touches and eye contact and lips against flesh and fucking kissing. _Always_ kissing.

Mickey whines petulantly to no one, and reaches down, dick twitching at the thought of Raúl’s lips against his own. His fingers graze his erection and he shivers, because holy shit he’s still hard, still so sensitive. How did he wake up like this? He was seconds away from a wet dream like a fucking teenage virgin, because he can’t stop thinking, can’t stop dreaming about some guy. Some nobody. A guy he met one time. 

_Raúl_.

He repeats the name in his head, trying to make it sound the way Raúl had said it - the way that R sound had rolled off his tongue, past those pretty lips. Mickey exhales shakily as his fingers slide inside his boxers, long, firm touches, stroking himself almost against his will because he doesn’t want to be doing this, wishes he had the willpower to get up and take a cold shower. But instead he keeps working himself, fingers spreading pre-cum over the tip, hips gently thrusting, cheeks flushing. Two, three more strokes and he’s right back where he was when he’d woken up; aching, swollen, panting raggedly through his mouth. 

His mind is buzzing with Raúl and he tries to force from the thoughts from his brain, tries to think of anyone else; random guys at the bar, the beach, his previous fucks. But there’s no use, because Raúl has taken him over. He feels powerless, at the mercy of his own fantasy, unable to think of anything, anyone other than Raúl, and fuck, if that doesn’t turn Mickey on more. He increases the pace of his fingers against his dick, legs twitching, that fine layer of sweat beading all over his skin. He imagines Raúl fucking him into the mattress, his own hands in Raúl’s hair, fucking at that pretty mouth, coaxing him to take him in further, thrusting into him, hitting the back of his throat as he nears the edge.

Mickey swallows his moans, bites down on his lip, thumb flicking over his slit, teasing himself. Fuck, that feels good. He remembers the way Raúl stood there on the beach, olive skin and shirtless, tattoos on his chest, his arms. The lopsided smile, the dark haired happy trail. Mickey’s mind is a mess of pretty lips and brown eyes and black hair falling around shoulders, set against a soundtrack of panting grunts and knuckles rubbing against hard flesh. He works himself faster, harder, imagines nothing but warm breath against his skin, tongues in shameful places and lips pressing together, that look in Raúl’s eyes. That fucking look.

He barely notices the sound of his breathless grunting as he arches his back, rolls his hips, fucking himself mercilessly with his own hand. His dick is aching, throbbing almost painfully and he lasts about ten more seconds before comes with a final thrust of his hips and his palm rubbing himself over the tip. Mickey spills over his his fingers, legs twitching, breath catching in his throat as he applies the final, languid strokes, milking himself.

Fuck.

The bedroom is silent again but the sound of his pulse beating in his ears is deafening. It takes him a minute, a few seconds with his eyes closed, half a dozen long, deep breaths, before he starts to come down from the high, starts to piece his brain back together. The mental images of Raúl that haunted his dreams and his fantasy float away, and he lets them dissolve, smiling as a blank, warm feeling of calm takes over his mind.

* * *

Mickey stacks the last glass into the dishwasher and slams the door closed, shoves it ungraciously with his knee for good measure, before programming a cycle and pressing start. The bar has been busy tonight, because it’s a Friday night and the university students are out drinking and Mexico is apparently heading into tourist season. But Mickey doesn’t know anything about that, doesn’t even really care, because he hasn’t been living in Mexico long enough. All he knows is he’s been busy, pouring drinks and wiping down the bar and tables and stacking the dishwasher for almost the last eight hours and now his back is aching and his feet are sore.

He leans back against the counter behind the bar, and closes his eyes, just for a second, enjoying half a minute of peace before he needs to get back to pouring tequila and beers and listening to drunk tourists wax on about their holidays. Sometimes Mickey can’t believe this is his job, that this is his life. If someone back in Chicago had told him that by the time he was twenty two he would be working an actual job for hours at a time, to the point of near exhaustion, he would have told them to fuck off. And then he would have laughed in their face, probably given them the finger. Yet here he is doing just that, and it really isn’t too bad. Sure his brothers back on the Southside would call him a fucking pussy and tell him he’d gone soft, but Mickey really doesn’t care because even with the whole fugitive complication hanging over his head, there are worse things. He knows all about that. There are definitely worse things than this, worse things than working his ass off for minimum wage and surviving mostly on tips. But he tries not to think about that anymore. He tries to keep his mind focused on the present, because the past is the past and his future is more uncertain than ever, and right now he’s looking forward to finishing work, heading home and drinking a beer or three in bed.

“Hola, Mickey!” Sofia’s voice drifts past him, enthusiastic as usual, and he sighs quietly, opening his eyes. 

“We are free from this shift in twenty minutes,” she says nodding with a grin, adding a tray full of dirty glasses to the sink next to where Mickey is standing, “vas a venir esta noche, si?” _You’re coming tonight, yes?_

Mickey sighs and bites down on his lip. Shit, really? Does he have to? But then he remembers all the other times he’d told Sofia he’d go out with her and then bailed because he’d been tired and over it and had just wanted to go home and smoke a joint, maybe play some video games.

“So I can sit around listening to you lot speak Spanish and not understand a fucking word?” he snaps back, that old Mickey Milkovich defensiveness creeping into his voice. He watches the disappointment flash briefly across Sofia’s face and he feels bad because Sofia is a cool chick, always friendly to him and she even hooked him up with this job. It wouldn't kill him to try harder to be nice.

Sofia folds her arms over her chest, an eyebrow raised. “This is how you improve your Spanish, Mickey,” she says, shrugging, “you spend time with us in social situations and you will learn how to have real conversations in Spanish.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs, but he knows Sofia is right. His Spanish is still pretty bad for someone who has been in the country for almost five months. Hell, that’s close to half a fucking year and outside of reciting drink orders, he can still barely string a sentence together.

“I haven’t seen many guys at your house lately,” Sofia grins, her face softens and she kicks playfully at Mickey’s foot, “we’ll find you hot new guy to fuck, si?”

The blood pools in Mickey’s cheeks and he snorts, looks away. After all this time, after everything he’s been through, coming out, the Southside, fucking _prison_ , he still feels a little strange, a little awkward, talking about this stuff. But he’s also kind of embarrassed, because he _has_ been off his game recently and now he knows it’s been obvious enough that even his next door neighbour has noticed. And if he’s honest with himself, he knows that he’s been feeling a little off, a little less excited about banging random dudes, since.. well, since he met Raúl. 

Mickey palms at his eyes and groans quietly at the realisation. Fucking Raúl. That guy is ruining his goddamn life.

“Didn’t realise you were keeping fucking tabs on me,” he replies, defensive again, but this time Sofia only laughs.

“I got better things to do,” she says, and she leans forward, rubbing her hand over Mickey’s hair, laughing and feigning innocence, “but I notice things.” 

Mickey curses and sighs as he ducks away from Sofia’s teasing hands, but he thinks that maybe she’s right about this too, and what he actually needs is to go out and get himself laid. So maybe he will go out with Sofia and her friends later. He’ll have a couple of drinks, find some guy to fuck him into the couch or a wall, wherever they decide to do it. No pressure. It will be easy, because it’s always easy, and then he’ll be back following his dick around and feeling like himself before he knows it.

“Aight,” Mickey runs his fingers through his hair blindly, tries to smooth out the mess that he’s sure Sofia made of it, “I’m coming. Where we going?”

* * *

The bar is loud and and busy and filled with people around Mickey’s age, university students and people in their mid-twenties who look like they’ve come from work, and the irony that he and Sofia traded their crowded, noisy workplace more of the same in another location, is not lost on Mickey. But Sofia had assured him that this bar is better, cooler apparently, whatever that even means, with good live music and fewer tourists. 

_Fewer tourists_. 

Sofia had won Mickey over with those two words. Because it’s enough that he’s a fugitive living in a tourist city, going to work everyday in a tourist bar, tonight he wants a break from that anxiety, the quiet buzzing panic in the back of his mind that one of these tourists will recognise him and it will be game over for Mickey Milkovich - back to prison with you, boy.

A shrill, ringing followed by the sound of fingers tap, tap, tapping on a microphone fills the bar, rattling through Mickey’s ears into his head, and he winces. There’s a shuffle of feet behind him as a crowd scrambles for a better view of the stage, and he’s shoved hard against the bar, elbows cracking against the edge of the counter. He bites down on his lip, takes a deep breath, counts silently to five, fighting that urge to turn around and scream at the people behind him. Back in prison, hell back in Chicago, someone would have paid for slamming into him like that. But he’s a fugitive now and he has to pick his battles.

There’s a loud whooping whistle behind him, a ripple of applause and suddenly the lights are dimmed and the bar is thrown into a noisy world of guitar strumming and some guy singing in Spanish. The guy is good, whoever he is, but Mickey doesn’t turn around because the bartender has come over to take his order. Fucking finally. 

“Seis tequila,” Mickey leans over the bar and yells, he has to, to make himself heard over the sound of the music, “uno Dos Equis.”

The bartender nods. “Muy bien,” and Mickey throws his pesos down on the counter, listens to the music as the bartender pours the shots. He can make out a few of the Spanish words, enough to know that the song is about love and death and losing something, someone most likely, and he figures he would probably enjoy the music a whole lot more if he was into that soft, jangly indie acoustic shit. 

“Seis tequila, uno Dos Equis,” the bartender says, loading the drinks onto a tray and pushing it across the bar to Mickey. Mickey nods, mutters _gracias_ under his breath, grabbing the tray and heading back towards the booth to Sofia and her friends. 

The music stops, the song has ended and the singer starts speaking in Spanish. “Gracias por haber venido,” _thankyou for coming_ , and Mickey thinks the voice sounds familiar, sounds cheeky, an almost-laugh hiding behind the words, but he can’t quite place it, can’t remember where he’s heard it before. 

Mickey weaves his way back towards the booth with the drinks, and there’s more speaking from the stage, more Spanish words that he can’t piece together and then someone in the crowd yells something and the singer laughs. That fucking laugh.

“Si, si, pinche conijo!” _Fucking smartass,_ the singer says from the stage, laughing again, and the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stands on end because he knows that laugh and yeah, he definitely knows that voice. A shiver, an annoyingly pleasant shiver, runs up his spine and he’s frozen, wants to look away, but his eyes trail upwards instead until he’s looking directly at the singer, the owner of that voice and that laugh. Raúl.

“Fuck,” Mickey half gasps, half chokes, the word falling from his lips effortless and involuntary, because at some point his mouth must have dropped open in surprise. He increases his grip on the tray of drinks, because if he ends up dropping them while he’s standing there open-mouthed and gawking at _some guy_ he’ll never fucking forgive himself. 

Raúl keeps talking and Mickey just stares at him, watching as he talks to the crowd, smiles, the way he runs his fingers through his hair and how his hair always falls back around his eyes. How is it even possible that this guy is better looking than Mickey remembers him? Jesus christ, he’s.. he’s fucking beautiful. And then Raúl looks up from the crowd and he’s looking right at Mickey. Eye contact. Mickey feels his face burning, his cheeks prickling with a strange combination of embarrassment and excitement, and Raúl stumbles over his words. He stammers. If Mickey could do anything but stare, he’d be smirking because Raúl saw him and he actually fucking stammered. 

Raúl laughs again, nervously this time, and flashes that half-smile of his in Mickey’s direction, before he adjusts his guitar and starts strumming the first few chords of his next song.

“Mickey!” Sofia waves her arm in Mickey’s line of sight, yelling at him from four feet away, “Qué onda? Qué haces?” _What’s up? What are you doing?_

Mickey blinks and shakes his head, tries to bring himself back to reality. He needs to fucking pull himself together, needs to get over this fucking Raúl obsession, that’s what’s up. He deposits the tray onto their table and slides into the booth opposite Sofia. They distribute their drinks and Mickey downs his two tequila shots one after the other. He winces as the tequila slides down his throat, settling in his stomach and leaving him feeling warm and slightly buzzed. He’s such a fucking lightweight now. 

The conversation between Sofia and the others continues on around Mickey, half in Spanish, half English, for his benefit, but he barely contributes, barely says a word because he’s too distracted. Instead he steals furtive glances at the stage, at Raúl, looking away whenever they make eye contact, playing some ridiculous cat and mouse game with each other from across the room.

Mickey is onto his second beer by the time Raúl finishes his set, and he watches as he packs up his guitars and whatever the fuck else he uses to perform his songs, and disappears around the side of the bar, out of sight. Mickey sighs, spins his empty beer bottle around between his fingers. Well, that’s that then.

“Hola, Mickey,” Raúl says from behind the booth and Mickey turns his head, sees Raúl leaning behind him, arms folded over the back of his seat, “gonna let me buy you a drink?”

Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat, but he shrugs, tries to play it cool. “Whatever. If you want,” and he frowns as Sofia kicks him under the table, gets him right in the shin. Real fucking subtle.

“Yeah, I want,” Raúl leans in and whispers directly into Mickey’s ear and a chill runs up his spine as Raúl heads towards the bar. 

“I think we’re gonna go now,” Sofia says, flashing a knowing look in Mickey’s direction, then back the other two girls, “call it a night, girls?”

Sofia and her friends shuffle out of the booth and head towards the door, but Sofia stops, leans down towards Mickey, “Be nice,” she says, ruffling his hair again and planting a kiss right on top of his head, just to spite him because he’s told her over and over how much he fucking hates that shit, “I wanna hear that you tapped that ass, okay?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey drawls, but they both know he doesn’t mean it.

* * *

Raúl sets six tequila shots down onto the table and slides into the booth right next to Mickey. An hour ago they had been sitting opposite each other drinking beer, talking about tv shows and movies and random things that were happening around the city, and that godforsaken jellyfish. Small talk, not exactly Mickey’s favourite pass time but safe and relatively meaningless, and nobody gets hurt when things are meaningless.

“Tequila, huh?” Mickey smirks, looks directly at Raúl as he downs his first shot, “you tryin’ to get me drunk?”

“Nah,” Raúl says, throwing his head back as he takes his own shot and Mickey watches him swallow, watches his neck as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “You look like you could handle it.” 

Mickey resists the urge to say something filthy, to force this conversation to its logical conclusion. “You a local celebrity around here or some shit, huh?”

Raúl laughs, runs a hand through his hair, looks at Mickey briefly and then looks away, actually looks almost shy for a second. “People seem to like my music.”

Mickey nods. “That’s cool,” he says, and he looks up at Raúl from underneath his eyelashes.

“What about you?” Raúl asks, shifting slightly in the booth, pressing their legs together looking at Mickey with those almond shaped eyes. “You like it?”

Mickey swallows heavily, breaks Raúl’s gaze and looks down at where their legs are touching under the table. His stomach is fluttering and he realises that he unfortunately now knows what it means when teenage girls say they have butterflies in their stomach. He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and tries to ignore the pleasant chaos happening in his gut, tries to focus on the question instead. Did he like Raúl’s music? Well, he didn’t hate it but he’s pretty sure Raúl doesn’t really want to hear _that_. 

“You’re talented,” Mickey says - honesty without actually saying anything at all, and he thinks that was actually pretty fucking smooth. Diplomatic almost. But for some reason, he can’t just leave it at that. He actually wants to keep talking to this guy, wants to know more. “How long you been doing this music thing for, anyways?”

Raúl hums thoughtfully, as if he’s trying to remember. “I taught myself how to play piano when I was.. nine,” he says, running a hand through his hair again and Mickey nods, raises an eyebrow. Impressive. 

“My abuela - my _grandmother_ \- had a piano,” Raúl continues and he leans a long arm against the back of the booth, fingers absently playing with the collar of Mickey’s shirt. 

Mickey looks up at him, meets his gaze, those brown eyes looking back at him with the most intense and genuine interest Mickey has seen directed at him in.. longer than he can remember. He exhales shakily, completely and utterly distracted by Raúl’s fingers dancing around his collar, and the eye contact and Raúl’s lop-sided smile and his warm body pressed against Mickey’s in this booth built for at least six people. He’s pretty sure Raúl is teasing him, trying to draw this entire tempting charade out for as long as humanly possible, testing Mickey’s resolve. And jesus, Mickey could move an inch, just turn himself over to this bizarre connection that _most definitely_ exists between them, and Raúl would be touching him, touching his neck, and then they would probably kiss and Mickey knows he would fucking love it, but he also knows if he let that happen it would be game over Mickey Milkovich, in a completely different way. But despite knowing this, and wanting to avoid all that, Mickey can’t help himself - he licks his lips, watches Raúl’s eyes as they follow his tongue to the edge of his mouth.

Raúl smiles, huffs out a laugh, breaks eye contact. He reaches forward and picks up a tequila shot, throws it back like it’s water. “Anyone in your family play music, Mickey?”

Mickey allows himself to relax slightly, now that he’s managed to avoid another kiss, and he leans back against the booth. Raúl’s hand is still there, still so tantalisingly close to his neck that he can feel the heat radiating from his fingers. Raúl could touch him if he wanted to but he doesn’t, and Mickey finally gets it, finally figures out what the hell is going on. Raúl’s throwing out a trail of breadcrumbs, trying to get Mickey to follow it, trying to get him to bite, leaving the first move up to him. Well, okay then. 

Mickey shrugs, thinks about Raúl’s question. “My mother played the violin,” he says and the words surprise even him, because he hasn’t thought about his mother in years, certainly hasn’t talked about her and fuck knows why he’s starting now with this random guy he doesn’t even know. He takes his second shot of tequila, tries to buy himself time, tries to think up a response so he can backtrack. “And absolutely fucking none of that skill rubbed off on me.” 

“You might be surprised, Mickey,” Raúl laughs again, that contagious laugh and Mickey laughs in return in spite of himself, watches that sparkle behind Raúl’s eyes, feels his stomach twist in that way that he loves and hates at the same time with equal measure. “Practice makes perfect, yeah?”

Mickey snorts, shakes his head. “Doubt it,’ he says, relieved, grateful to be killing that subject. He glances at Raúl’s arm still draped over the back of the booth, still dangerously close to touching, sees some tattoos he hadn’t noticed last time, figures that will do for a subject change. “What’s that tatt on your wrist then, huh? Ain’t noticed it before.”

“Oh,” Raúl smiles, holds his hand out so Mickey can see it, “Zamora. The name of my abuela’s family, Mickey. My sister and I changed our name to match hers.”

Mickey nods. He knows there has to be a story there, but he doesn’t ask, because he’s too busy thinking about Raúl’s name. _Raúl Zamora_. He likes the sound of it, thinks it sounds like a rockstar name if ever he’s heard one. This guy. This fucking guy. 

“And what about you?” Raúl taps his fingers against Mickey’s chest, above the place where his Ian tattoo is, where the memory of prison and Ian and being fucked up in fifty different ways, has lived and died. “The tattoo there? You do that one too, yeah? It hurt?”

Mickey’s breath catches in his chest, his throat tightens. That’s right. Raúl knows about that tattoo, would have seen it at the beach. Mickey sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, scrapes his teeth against the skin, looks up at Raúl, down at his lap. He suddenly has no idea why he’s still sitting here, talking about tattoos, talking about _meaningful shit_ , seconds away from explaining how and why he has his ex’s name inked across his chest. 

Mickey inhales deeply, exhales slowly as a sigh. “Yeah, did that one too,” he nods, takes another deep breath, “the tattoo didn’t hurt.”

Raúl hums, nodding, shoots Mickey a knowing look, and Mickey thinks it’s almost as if Raúl really understands what he was saying, or _not saying_ right then; the tattoo didn’t hurt, but everything before and after did.

“Shit, you’re brave, man.” Raúl nods slowly, rubs the outside of Mickey’s shirt above the tattoo, lets his hand fall down onto his Mickey’s thigh. “Fucking badass, Mickey.”

Mickey gnaws on his bottom lip, looks at Raúl’s hand on his leg, watches as his thumb moves, just barely, back and forth against his thigh. “Did it to try and get my ex back,” Mickey shrugs, and the words are out of his mouth before he’s had a chance to stop himself. He could kick himself, he really could, because all he really wants right in this moment is for Raúl to fuck him. Everything else is just preamble. 

“Did it work?”

Mickey pauses, thinks about this. Maybe Ian had been his again a year later, for two brief days on the drive down to Texas - but no, it really hadn’t worked, had it? “Nah.”

Raúl nods, and relaxes his hand against Mickey’s thigh, stills his thumb. “We all got an ex like that, huh?” he says and he makes a fist with his free hand, hits it lightly against his own chest, near his heart. “Hard to shake.”

Mickey shudders, because he really doesn’t know if everyone has an ex like that, doesn’t know shit. But he hopes not everyone has a previous relationship that painful, for humanity’s sake. “He’s in the past,” he says, “shit happened. I’m over it now.”

“He’s in the past,” Raúl repeats, and Mickey looks up at him again, smirks, raises his eyebrows playfully. Mickey leans forward, downs his last shot of tequila.

“Aight then,” Mickey says, slamming the empty shot glass onto the table, “I’m gonna head back to my place.”

Raúl scoots out of the booth, stands up to let Mickey out. “Okay, Mickey,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “thanks for drinking with me, buenas noches. Good night.”

Mickey snorts, stares at Raúl in disbelief. Absolute sheer and utter disbelief. This guy. He _cannot_ be fucking serious. All that eye contact, that back and forth, talking about meaningful crap. All of that and Mickey still has to spell it out for him? “Well? You coming with me or not?”

Raúl grins, and Mickey watches him as he throws back the last remaining shot of tequila, hastily, like his life depends on it. Mickey nods. That’s more like it.

Mickey starts walking towards the door, weaving past the tables and the few remaining drinkers, he throws a quick glance behind him, wants to make sure Raúl is following him.

He is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YOU GUYS! I am so sorry for the slow update! I've been busy, and I always start these chapters thinking I'll write a short one and just put it out there, but then I end up staying up all night and writing 5000 words.
> 
> And just so you know, I have this head-canon where the Milkovich mother was musical, so that's why she played the violin.
> 
> The next chapter will be up much quicker than this one was, and I PROMISE it will be worth the wait. Pinky swear! 
> 
> Here, have another picture of Raúl;  
> 


	5. Property Values

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times ahead...

Mickey leans back against the kitchen counter as he downs the last of his beer and tosses the bottle into the sink. He looks up at Raúl standing opposite him, and his tongue traces the edges of his mouth, tasting the remains of his beer on his lips. His eyes rake over Raúl leaning against the refrigerator; muscle and lank in skinny jeans and plaid shirt hugging him in all the right places, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a few strands of chest hair against his olive skin. Mickey licks his lips again, watches him as he brings the bottle to his mouth - those plump lips - watches as he wraps his lips around the edge, tilts his head back, swallows. There’s a stirring in Mickey’s groin and he’s growing impatient, wants to get this show on the road. 

“You got a nice place here, Mickey,” Raúl gestures with the bottle in his hand, “not so old, spacious. Bigger than my place, yeah?”

Mickey nods slowly, the corner of his mouth creeping up into a smirk. “That what you came here for huh?” he says, with an arch of his eyebrows and he walks towards the couch, figures Raúl will take the hint and follow if he’s got half a brain in his head, “a real estate appraisal or some shit?”

Raúl laughs from somewhere behind him, and Mickey can only imagine how that laugh looks on his face, imagines how Raúl’s eyes would be sparkling, his tongue darting out from behind his teeth, thinks about how he wants to laugh too. But holy shit, Mickey needs to stop fantasising about this guy’s face and his laugh, and remember why he invited him over.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I came here for,” Raúl says, and suddenly there are hands on Mickey’s hips, hands spinning around and pushing him against the edge of the couch, those same hands sliding underneath his shirt, running over his chest, Raúl’s mouth against his ear. “I meet gringos in the bar and come home with them to discuss property values.”

Mickey snorts, pulls back, eyebrow raised. Fucking smartass. But he has to admit he’s impressed; Raúl didn’t flinch, didn’t skip a beat - just gave Mickey back as good as he got, and fuck yes, it went straight to his dick. And now they’re standing against Mickey’s couch, face to face, eyes locked, that sweet curling flutter deep in Mickey’s stomach, a pleasant warmth sparking underneath his skin. Raúl’s presses his fingers into Mickey’s hips, one hand rubbing the small of his back. Their hips meet, slowly grinding and Raúl leans in, lips so close, Mickey can feel his warm breath against his mouth. Raúl licks his lips and Mickey watches his tongue, wants that tongue in his mouth, licking into him. He can think of almost nothing besides kissing Raúl in this moment, because he wants to, he really wants to. Hell, he’s _dreamed_ about kissing this guy. Mickey tears his eyes away from Raúl’s lips, steals a glance at his face, his freckles, the rings in his nose - fuck, he’s beautiful. Just one kiss. What could be the harm in it? He wants to, Raúl wants to. It’s what people do. But Mickey can’t; he can’t go there because he’s only just become used to feeling _okay_ , feeling almost _normal_ again, after everything - after Ian. He doesn’t need that shit in his life again. He turns his head away, exhales slowly as Raúl’s lips make contact with his neck instead.

Raúl inhales sharply, surprised, but seems to take the hint, seems to realise that kissing is off the table. He pauses, just a beat, brown eyes peering into blue, searching for something, and Mickey notices - he gives a small nod, and then there’s fumbling with belts and zippers and the soft, breezy whoosh as clothes are shed and fall to the floor. Mickey is hard, so fucking hard and aching and he can feel himself leaking, pre-cum settling cool and wet around the tip of his swollen dick. Fuck he wants this, needs it even. Raúl grinds against him, slotting their legs together, grabbing handfuls of Mickey’s ass as he presses against him. Mickey has one hand on Raúl’s dick, stroking it, long languid strokes, and he huffs a quiet laugh - a little smirk - because he’s big, really big. His free hand runs over Raúl’s ass, his back, his ribs and chest; his skin is soft and smooth and warm under his fingertips and palm. It feels so good, _so fucking good_ to Mickey, just to touch and be touched, Raúl’s fingers like fire over his skin, desperate and hungry and so very different from all the others these past few months.

Mickey tilts his head back, groans deep in his throat as Raúl wraps a hand around his dick, fingers working him, thumb flicking over the swollen tip, providing sweet, sweet relief. But it’s still not enough, he needs more. He rolls his hips, arching towards Raúl’s hand, chasing that sweet friction, needing more pressure, more heat, more touch; just more of this guy.

Raúl moans, ragged and hot against Mickey’s neck, “Fuck.. muy bueno,” he rasps, breath tickling Mickey’s skin, sending shivers sparking down his spine. “Tu culo se siente... increíble.” _Your ass feels amazing._ Then there’s fingers sliding between the cleft of his cheeks, brushing his hole, teasing him and Mickey hisses. He rolls his hips, rocks back and forth, chasing sensation as Raúl’s fingers work him front and back. Fuck, this feels amazing, so fucking good and right, jesus. He bites down on his lip, stifling the needy whines that sit waiting in his throat.

“How… how you wanna.. do this, Mickey?” Raúl’s words are hot and desperate against his neck, and Mickey tries to summon up the snark, to tell Raúl to just _fucking hurry up and fuck me, jesus christ._ But Raúl’s fingers are still rubbing his hole, still warm and soft and teasing and when Mickey opens his mouth he gasps and pants and his words fail him. “Fuck,” he hears himself - a pathetic whine, and he shudders as Raúl continues his teasing, one hand light and playful around his rim, the other applying just the right amount of pressure, confident strokes working his dick so well. “Fuck.. want you to.. fuck me.”

“Bueno.. esto es bueno.” _This is good,_ Raúl says, andMickey musters the presence of mind to find the lube and condoms in the pocket of his jeans. And then Raúl’s hands are on his hips, flipping him around, Raúl’s dick flush against his ass, his hips grinding against him as his erection presses hot and throbbing against Mickey’s cheeks. Mickey hisses and groans in anticipation and Raúl breathes a shaky string of curse words against the back of his neck.

Raúl releases his grip slightly, and Mickey feels him stand back, hands still on his hips, fingers and palms applying even pressure, holding him there. “Fuck… your ass, Mickey..” Raúl leans forward, all hot panting breaths tickling against Mickey’s neck and ear. Mickey shudders. He’s dreamed about this, Raúl behind him, hot lips spreading goosebumps across his skin. And it’s better than his dreams, _so much better._ “Your ass.. perfecto, beautiful, Mickey.. hermoso culo.”

And then Raúl is on his knees, and Mickey turns his head, sees him out of the corner of his eyes, hands running over Mickey’s cheeks, tracing their soft curve. Mickey feels lips against the top of his cleft and Raúl’s drawn out breathy, “Fuck…” Mickey’s hand moves to his dick, without thinking, an instinct, and he’s hard and throbbing and slicked up with pre-cum. He strokes himself, can’t help it, because his dick is so hot and aching and wet. He exhales shakily, slowly, tries to be quiet, doesn’t want to sound too eager. But shit; it’s been a little while - a few weeks since he’s been fucked - and he can’t help himself from exhaling a long, low moan.

Raúl’s lips sit warm and soft against the top of his cleft, “Puedo?” he says, running a finger between Mickey’s cheeks, “Can I do this?”

Mickey shivers, his stomach twists and flutters, warms him from head to toe, and he can’t ignore it - not this time. Fuck yes, Raúl can do that. He can do it the rest of the fucking night if that’s what he wants. He strokes himself harder, thinks about the intimacy of it; the kind of intimacy he hasn’t felt in months. He feels vulnerable and exposed and wants desperately to say something sarcastic, rude; _the fuck do I care, it’s your fucking mouth, if that’s what gets you going_. But he opens his mouth and he can’t say any of those things, can’t even form words. He hums, and nods quickly, swallows. Words, he needs words.“Yes,” Mickey finally rasps, “Do it.. Fuck..”

Raúl huffs a quiet laugh and Mickey can feel it against his skin, warm and tickling. Mickey spreads his legs a little, and Raúl uses one hand on the small of his back, pushing him forward over the back of the couch. And then Raúl’s lips are pressed against his spine, not a kiss - it’s not - just the soft, warm pressure of skin against skin, lips trailing downwards towards his ass. Mickey’s dick is throbbing so fiercely it’s almost painful - and he wants to tell Raúl to hurry it up, not because he’s impatient because he’s really not going to be able to last if he draws this out. Raúl’s lips meet his cheeks, soft, brief touches, and then there’s teeth digging in, gently biting, playful but intimate. Mickey hisses as Raúl's tongue and teeth move across his flesh and Raúl’s hand parts his cheeks, a finger running slowly past his rim. 

“Ohh.. fuck.. fuck,” Mickey whines in spite of himself, heart racing, skin tingling. He’s on fire. And then he hears Raúl make a noise, a small chuckle - he’s fucking laughing at him. But Mickey can barely bring himself to care because Raúl exhales against his rim, and Mickey feels himself twitching there, tensing and relaxing and then there’s tongue, just a lick and - _fuck_ that feels good. Raúl licks another warm, wet stripe against his hole and Mickey shudders, moans, mewls - whatever. Raúl must be encouraged because Mickey feels that tongue again, deliberate and confident, licking at his hole; lips moving against him between his meaty cheeks and then Raúl’s face is buried between them licking, sucking, kissing at his rim. Mickey feels himself slowly grinding, rolling his hips against the couch and back towards Raúl’s face, feeling that tongue and those lips buried in his ass, chasing that sweet fucking bliss from both sides. 

Mickey inhales, holds his breath and listens to the delicious sounds from behind him; the lapping of wet tongue against flesh, the hums and low moans from Raúl’s throat as he licks and sucks and goddamn makes out with Mickey’s ass. Then Mickey feels a finger, just one, slide in beside tongue and he whines like a little bitch and doesn’t give a single fuck. Raúl hums his appreciation, vibrations travelling against the sensitive puckered skin, and then there’s another finger, and oh god, another - three fingers, slowly moving in and out, twisting and scissoring inside him, over and over, stretching him open.

Mickey opens his mouth, a string of saliva stretching from his lips to the top of the couch cushion, landing with a slight pop. Christ he’s fucking drooling. He strokes himself quickly, a few fast, desperate strokes; some relief finally. They’re going to have to fuck now, because Mickey is not going to last. “M’good..” he says, his voice thick and deep, caught somewhere between a grunt and a moan, words almost completely lost, “M’ready.. fuck.. fuck me..”

“Okay, Mickey,” Raúl says, removing his mouth from Mickey’s flesh, lips smacking wetly. He’s muttering quietly in Spanish, hands caressing, moving over Mickey’s cheeks and thighs, “fuck you‘re so good.. so good.” Raúl stands up behind Mickey, one hand still rubbing the top of his thigh, hips slowly rocking against his ass, whispering in Mickey’s ear, _you are so fucking hot right now_ , _fucking perfect_ , and Spanish words too, words that Mickey doesn’t know, but they go straight to his hot, swollen dick, regardless. And there’s that twist in his gut, again, that flicker that starts in his stomach and shimmies all over his body. Mickey hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper, that elastic snapping sound, the sticky, wet sound of lube, as Raúl prepares himself. 

Their skin is touching, Mickey’s back against Raúl’s chest, warm and solid, and Mickey can hear Raúl’s breathing, his ragged breaths, the heaving of his chest, the intake of air that he holds as he rocks his hips, pushes into Mickey finally. They moan in unison as Raúl breaches him, holding himself there for a second, and Mickey hisses, savouring that feeling, that beautiful, sweet ache; the burn that makes him pant and moan and shudder and feel so _fucking_ good, as he’s stretched and filled. 

“You okay?” Raúl exhales raggedly, whining into Mickey’s ear, hand sliding around to Mickey’s abdomen, just holding him there, stilling him, the perfect amount of pressure. 

Mickey groans, bites down on his lip, presses his ass back against Raúl, tries desperately to find the pressure and the friction that he craves. “M’good.. just keep.. keep going.”

Raúl hums, bites down on Mickey’s shoulder and then complies, hips rolling backwards, sliding out of Mickey almost all the way, just enough to tease. He holds there for a second, and Mickey whines from the loss, breath held, waiting - _needing_ to be filled again, before he presses back in, bottoming out. Mickey groans, as Raúl pushes in and out of him, hips rolling against his ass, fucking him hard and deep, one hand rubbing Mickey’s stomach, his hips, the other caging him against the couch. Spanish words fall from Raúl’s mouth, a steady stream that Mickey doesn’t even try understand but he still thinks it’s hot, sexy as fuck, that Raúl can’t fucking help himself, can’t stop the words from tumbling.

“So fucking tight… hermoso,” Raúl rasps, breathless and sexy and hot from behind Mickey, “hermoso culo, perfecto, increíble.” And then Raúl picks up the pace, fucking Mickey so deep and perfectly, hips grinding fluid and heavy and rhythmic, smooth like fucking molasses against Mickey’s ass. Mickey whines and pants and he knows he sounds like a fucking mess but Raúl is fucking him so good, he feels so fucking full, so fucking complete with this guy buried inside him. He’s white hot, skin burning all over, sweat beading against his skin, between his back and Raúl’s chest, their skin peeling apart and sticking together with each thrust. And then Raúl shifts slightly, doesn’t stop, just changes the angle a little and yeah, that’s it, that’s fucking it - he hits that spot, that beautiful bundle of nerves inside Mickey, and Mickey is electric, fucking vibrating, with pleasure. He bites down on his lip violently, trying desperately to stifle the moans, to keep a little something to himself, but he needs Raúl to keep hitting that spot. He fucking needs it like he needs air.

“Right there,” Mickey mewls at the ceiling, back arching, “fucking keep at it.. right there.” Raúl whines and hums from behind him, rasps _okay_ , and _yes_ and _of course_ as he hits the spot again, and again, over and over and Mickey moans, sees stars and his eyes are watering. _His fucking eyes are watering_. And then they’re both panting and moaning and with each roll of Raúl’s hips; both of them given in to the low groans waiting heavy in their throats. Mickey is close - so fucking close - to coming he’s almost in fucking tears, and he opens his mouth to speak, but his mind is blank and useless. 

He hears himself say something, a moan, a slur of words, which Raúl seems to understand regardless, as he fucks into him harder and faster. “Me too, Mickey,” Raúl whines, “any second now.” And then Raúl’s hand slides south from Mickey’s stomach to his dick and there’s fingers wrapping around his aching, tired erection, fingers that don’t belong to Mickey. He has a vague thought that _this is new, this is something different_ because he usually finishes himself off, but whatever - Raúl jerks him off fast and fucking perfect, hand moving in time with his last desperate, hard fucks at Mickey’s ass. 

Mickey exhales noisily, feels like he’s melting, feels hot and cold and like fucking jelly inside and out as he comes all over Raúl’s fingers. He feels himself clenching and spasming deep inside, around Raúl’s dick, and then there’s that final thrust as Raúl groans, a sexy fucking whine, and topples over the edge, right alongside him. 

They’re standing there, bodies sticky with sweat and still pressed together, Raúl leaning into Mickey and Mickey leaning against the back of the couch, chests heaving, catching their breath. Mickey’s mind is still mush, a fractured mess, and all he can think about, all he _knows_ right in this moment is that was fucking amazing; the best fuck he’s had in…well, a long time. Definitely the best fuck he’s had in Mexico. No contest.

Raúl presses his face into Mickey’s neck, mumbles against his skin and Mickey shudders. The intimacy feels warm and soft and he kind of hates himself for liking it so much and hates himself again for not being able to lean into Raúl’s touch like he wants to. He thinks about turning around, facing Raúl and kissing him. He definitely, _definitely_ hasn’t felt like this after sex with anyone ever, besides Ian. 

“Mickey that was-,” Raúl starts to say, but Mickey knows what the next words will be; amazing, incredible, fucking great. Mickey knows, because he felt it too and he wants to hear the words, wants to hear Raúl say them, but.. he can’t. It’s too much right now, so he cuts him off with a grunt and a duck of his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey mutters, shaking his head, “I know. Whatever.” He hears Raúl sigh behind him, but Mickey can’t see his face, doesn’t turn around to look, so the meaning behind it goes begging.

They clean themselves up, get dressed and Mickey watches Raúl as he pours his lanky frame back into his black skinny jeans, watches as the jeans sit low and flush against his hips, hugging his tight little ass perfectly. Jesus fucking christ, that is one beautiful man. 

Raúl catches Mickey staring, and he smirks, laughs quietly, that smirk transforming into a cheeky grin. There’s eye contact and Mickey sees that sparkle, that fucking laugh behind his eyes and his stomach does that _thing_ again, so he bites down on his lip and looks away. 

“So, uhh…” Raúl say through the clinking of his belt buckle as he fumbles to fasten his jeans. He shrugs, licks his teeth nervously. Mickey is well aware this is the part of the story where he pushes away, says something sarcastic and mocking, tells Raúl to _fuck off_ and _get the fuck out,_ maybe threatens him a little for good measure. But he’s already well past the point of that with this guy, with Raúl, and he knows that he couldn’t kick him out that way even if he wanted to. 

Mickey faces Raúl again, looks right at his pretty fucking face, those brown, almond eyes looking back at him, friendly and deep and goddamn fucking honest. Raúl pulls his shirt on - he’s almost dressed, each item of clothing inching him closer to leaving, and Mickey scrapes his teeth against the inside of his cheek, tries to find his words. 

“Do you wanna umm..” Mickey starts, runs a hand through his hair, tries to relax his throat, to settle the pulse beating furiously in his neck. He has no idea what he wants to say, the next words to escape his lips surprising even him, “you wanna smoke a joint?”

* * *

It’s been about an hour since they fucked and Mickey’s ass is still tingling, still burning with that aching, sweet reminder of how fucking perfectly Raúl had filled him. His dick stirs languidly in his jeans at the thought, but he’s so fucking high right now, the memory remains a vague notion, and idea floating unanchored in his brain. They’re playing Super Mario on the Nintendo- the pile of junk Mickey bought at some Mexican thrift store at the bazar down the street. Raúl is next to him on the couch, legs stretched out on the coffee table, knees bent because he’s so damn lanky, and resting against Mickey. It feels a little surprising, strangely comfortable and familiar to be sitting with someone this way, allowing another person into his personal space like this. And yeah, they’ve fucked now, but sex has never been a problem for Mickey; it’s _everything else_ that felt awkward and intimate and.. too much - if he’s going to be completely honest. But, he’s sitting here with Raúl, his tall lank leaning against Mickey, their bare arms pressed together like old friends, like boyfriends - but they _aren’t_ , of course - like it’s no big deal. Mickey snorts and rolls his eyes at himself, interrupting himself from his ridiculous train of thought. Christ he is really fucking high.

Raúl throws his head back, laughing and cursing in Spanish as he dies onscreen. “Stupid Princess Peach,” he laughs, tossing the controller onto the coffee table, gesturing towards the tv, “they should remake this, give that woman a cell phone.”

Mickey chuckles, feels his lips pull themselves into a lazy grin. “The fuck?” he snorts, “So she can call 911 or some shit?”

Raúl laughs again and runs his fingers through his hair, turns to look at Mickey. “She can install the find my phone app, Mickey,” he deadpans, brown eyes sincere and earnest, as though he might actually be serious about this, “she’ll be easy to find then.”

Mickey blinks, stares back at Raúl, watches as his lips twitch into a smirk. Fucking idiot. “Or... she could call 911,” Mickey laughs lowly, “save us all the effort of looking for her ass.”

Raúl extends his arms, stretching, resting his head against the the edge of the couch and Mickey snorts quietly, thinking about what they did on the other side of that cushion only an hour before. “Emergency is 066 in Mexico,” Raúl shrugs, cracks his elbow. He drapes his arm over Mickey’s knee. “You gotta remember that, in case you need the police… or to be rescued.”

Mickey stares at Raúl’s arm resting on his knee as casual as if it fucking belongs there, giving him goosebumps that travel over his entire body and it occurs to him that he never shrugs off Raúl’s touch. He doesn’t lean into it, doesn’t encourage it, but he lets it happen. He swallows heavily, bites down on his lip, pushing that thought to the back of his mind. ”Fucking hope I don’t.”

“Fuck the police, hey Mickey?” Raúl nudges him with his elbow, raises his eyebrows, shoots Mickey a knowing look. “Que le den a la poli.”

Mickey closes his eyes, shakes his head slow, feeling the laughter bubbling in his chest. If only Raúl knew. Fuck the police is definitely one way of putting it. Fuck the Chicago DOC and the FBI too, as far as Mickey is concerned. Fuck them all. He smirks. “Something like that.”

Raúl nods, stays silent as he runs his finger back and forth over a worn area of denim at Mickey’s knee. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I know the feeling.”

Mickey looks at him, raises an eyebrow in curiosity but he doesn’t ask, and Raúl doesn’t offer an explanation, doesn’t elaborate. _I know the feeling,_ Mickey hears Raúl’s voice in his head, and he’s curious, very fucking curious what Raúl is talking about. But still, he truly doubts that Raúl has any idea at all what Mickey Milkovich really means when he says _fuck the police_.

A silence washes over them, as they sit on the couch, heads resting back, eyes closed, wrapped in the warm cotton wool of their high, the only sounds the soft trilling of music from the Nintendo and the distant, enthusiastic chirping of waking birds. Those fucking birds. Mickey yawns, feels his eyelids growing heavy. It really is late - or early, depending on how you look at it - and he should probably kick Raúl out, tell him he has to be up early or something like that. Isn’t that what people say? Because they can sit here on the couch all night and for the rest of the week, but there’s still no way he’s inviting Raúl into his bed - his _actual_ bed - to sleep. That would mean that they are a _something,_ and their relationship - if they even have one - is most definitely, one hundred percent, _nothing_. It has to be.

“I should probably get going, Mickey,” Raúl says, remaining still, making no effort at all to move. Mickey relaxes, releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, because Raúl has saved him the trouble of kicking him out - kicking him out _nicely,_ that is. 

“Yeah, man,” Mickey agrees, standing up, cracking his knuckles because he can’t think of anything else to do with his body. “S’been cool… hanging out and shit.” _And when you ate my ass out, then fucked me into the couch, I kinda fucking liked that too,_ he says to himself and runs a tired hand over his face to disguise his laughter. 

Raúl must hear his laughter and chuckles in return, and Mickey looks up at him, smiling out the side of his mouth. He watches Raúl fumble around the living room, pulling his boots on and gathering up his keys and his wallet and Mickey’s stomach does that _thing_ again and he realises that once Raúl walks out the door, he will walk out of his life too. Mickey sighs and bites his lip, really truly unsure how he feels about that. 

Raúl is at the front door, when he turns around, brown eyes raking over Mickey’s body one last time, a subtle pink flush rising in the olive skin of his cheeks. Mickey smirks. Mr Confidence is blushing.

“So, Mickey,” Raúl starts, runs that hand through his hair, licks his lips. “You wanna hang out tomorrow night? Go out? Do something?”

Mickey feels a sharp, hot pang of _something_ in his throat or his chest, and he suddenly realises he knows exactly how he feels about Raúl walking out of his life; he doesn’t want it. He scrapes his teeth over the inside of his cheek, eyes darting over Raúl, jumping from his face, to his legs, that tattoo on his wrist, his eyes, his fucking shoes. And then Mickey thinks about Chicago and the fucking border, and how his heart was ripped out over and over again and it always fucking hurt, no matter how much he was expecting it. Mickey is sweating; a cold, unfriendly sweat, his heart beating hard and loud in his ears. This isn’t even about Ian anymore; he really _is_ over Ian. It’s about the pain of _all that,_ and the fact that he’s spent the last five months telling himself - and almost fucking believing - that he’s not cut out for this relationship shit, no matter how much he thinks he might want it again someday. 

Mickey opens his mouth, slides his tongue over the edge of his bottom lip as he searches his tired, stoned brain for the words. “I.. I umm,” he starts, watches as Raúl raises his shoulders in a shrug, like he’s telling Mickey _it’s no big deal, it’s just hanging out._ Mickey’s mind is racing, thinking about the good times back in Chicago and how he wouldn’t trade those for anything in the world. No fucking way. So maybe.. maybe that means everything he went through was worth it. Whatever, anyway. Raúl just wants to hang out, probably fuck some more. They don’t have to kiss or fucking hold hands, or even stay at each other’s places - tonight proves that. They can just fuck. And that is something Mickey knows he can do. “I.. I’m busy tomorrow.”

It takes Mickey a second or two for his brain to catch up, to realise that he’s just rejected Raúl, when he’d felt for sure he had managed to talk himself out of it. His brain and his mouth and probably also his heart are on different wavelengths and Mickey wants to kick himself, feels like walking out into the street and offering himself up to the first person in the mood for getting into a fight and winning. Fuck this shit. Fuck _everything_.

But Raúl only shrugs, “Doesn’t matter,” he says, and he reaches out, rubs the side of Mickey’s neck with his hand, a thumb brushing his earlobe. It’s warm and it sends shivers up and down Mickey’s spine but he feels slightly offended now, kinda fucking annoyed that he’s just rejected this guy and apparently it _doesn’t even fucking matter_.

“It doesn’t, huh?” Mickey sighs, trying and failing to summon any snark behind his words.

Raúl shakes his head, dark brown strands falling around his face. “Nah,” he says, smiling with his eyes as he gives Mickey a final once-over, “I know where you fucking live.”

Mickey huffs, surprised, almost speechless for once in his life and he just stands there in the doorway, silent and still as Raúl says _adios_ and walks out of Mickey’s house and onto the street. Once Raúl is out of view, Mickey slams the door, thinks about what the fuck just happened.

Fucking Raúl. Who the fuck does he think he is, using Mickey’s own words against him and beating him at his own damn game? Fuck him. Seriously. Fuck. Him. Mickey stomps off towards the shower but barely makes it halfway before his annoyance has waned, faded. Because truthfully, he’s nothing if not impressed by this guy - goddamn Raúl Zamora or whatever his name is - this fucking confident, smartass, motherfucker.

_I know where you fucking live._

Mickey grins and chuckles to himself. Well, alright then. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened! Hopefully now Mickey will be able to get some quality rest and relaxation. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and sticking with this Mickey x OMC! I really love these two together. I can't wait to write more about Raúl - he's an interesting guy who's had an eventful life.
> 
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	6. It's Always Sunny in Mexico

**Cook County Metropolitan Correctional Centre - Eight weeks in.**

Mickey sat hunched over on a table in the exercise yard, elbows on his knees, inhaling deeply on his cigarette. Wind rustled through the yard tearing through the weave of his orange jumpsuit and nipped at his skin, cold and biting. He shivered, silently cursing the genius who thought it a good idea to build an exercise yard on top of a prison skyscraper in the windiest city in the United States. Fuck that guy.

Around him, the yard was a blur of pathetic bodies clad in orange, shuffling to keep warm, jogging, playing team sports. Basketball, volleyball, soccer. Mickey couldn’t be bothered, wouldn’t know how to play even if he wanted to. Maybe he’d go to the gym later, do some pull ups, lift some weights - that kind of shit. But right at that moment, he was fine - just fine - sitting on his own, smoking, knuckles tightening, turning pale from the bitter chill of Chicago’s late-autumn air. It kind of hurt him to move around too much, if he was honest. The skin on his chest ached and burned and stung. He thought that fucking tattoo would be itching by now, healing. But it wasn’t - it was still bleeding, still weeping, and the skin around the ink was red and swollen; spreading tiny tendrils of colour in all directions like little spider veins. 

_Svetlana paid me._

More than a week after Ian’s last visit and those three words still echoed in Mickey’s head, still haunted him, growing colder, more indifferent, nastier, each time they circled to the front of his mind. Svetlana had _paid_ Ian to visit. Paid him. After all those years, everything they’d been through - Ian had to be paid to visit. What the fuck? And why had Ian even told him that? Was that Ian’s way of driving it home that they really were over this time? Mickey couldn’t make any sense of it. Everything that happened that past year - living together with Ian, his illness, the breakup, the arrest and Ian’s reluctant visits - were all a jumble in his head. None of his memories felt real anymore. They felt like fragments, like jigsaw pieces. Except he couldn’t arrange the pieces together to form a complete picture, couldn’t make them fit. 

Ian had looked better this past visit; he’d had his hair cut, there was colour in his cheeks again, and he was wearing clothes Mickey hadn’t seen before - they must have been new. Ian had been taking his meds this time, Mickey could tell, and _shit_ \- he was relieved and fucking proud of him for that. Still, a small, ugly part of Mickey’s mind wished that Ian was resisting his medication. Mickey almost hated himself for it, but if Ian had been off his meds, the things he had said, the way he had acted during his visit wouldn’t have been Ian, not really. Not that Ian that Mickey had fallen in love with, anyway. But Ian had looked good, healthy. He’d looked like Ian, he was Ian, and still - he’d said _those words_. 

Mickey sighed, rubbing cautiously at the wound on his chest, hissing as it throbbed and radiated remorse and heat below his fingertips. He had no next move now, no more cards to play. The tattoo had been his plan A all the way through to Z, and it had gone over about as well as he should have expected. He could kick himself for asking Ian to wait, too. Because Ian had barely been able to wait to leave the visiting room; there was no way he was going to wait eight years for them to be together again. Mickey knew that, he really did. But now he also had Ian’s voice in his head, lying to him, telling him he would wait because for some reason Ian hadn’t been able to say the words, to throw him over that cliff entirely. Instead he had lied, leaving a thread between them, thin and fraying but still there nonetheless, and Mickey couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn't stop himself from holding onto that thread. Mickey had wanted Ian to lie, but now he couldn’t tell if it made him feel better or worse. 

He palmed at his forehead, frustrated, swallowing the nausea that bubbled in his stomach whenever he thought of Ian these days. Eight years. Eight fucking years he would be stuck in this shithole, this fucking cage, while Ian lived his life without him, doing fuck knows what on the other side of the wall. Mickey’s deck was empty and spent, while Ian’s was full. 

The buzzer sounded overhead and just like that, exercise time was over. A ripple of curses and moans spilled over the yard as prisoners shuffled towards the doors, their breath warm, humid puffs of smoke against the cold autumn air. Mickey slid off the edge of the table with a jolt, making his way towards the crowd of prisoners. He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with his foot, really fucking ground it into the cement. Right then, in that moment, he wasn’t even upset anymore, he was just fucking angry. Jesus christ, he would love nothing more than to punch someone in the fucking face.

Fuck Ian Gallagher. Fuck prison. Fuck everything and everyone.

* * *

The hallways were empty by the time Mickey had made it back to his floor. He’d stopped at the bathroom, had a good look in the mirror at his tattoo. It was infected; he didn’t need to be a fucking doctor to know that. The infection probably explained his headache too, and why, he was feeling a little warm, a little sweaty.

Fucking typical.

He turned a corner, expecting another deserted hallway, nothing but cold echoes from his own footsteps, but instead he saw Jenkins, hovering around cell doors, agitated, running his fingers through his hair. Jenkins was new, about Mickey’s age - a fish, never been in prison before. And he was a pain in the ass too, always looking to score, getting up in other people’s business, hadn’t learned his place.

“Milkovich!” Jenkins called out and Mickey rolled his eyes. “You got anything for me? Just a taste.. I just need.. just need a little something something, yeah?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey drawled, face set in disdain. He didn’t have time for this shit. Not today. “Do I look like a fucking dealer?”

Jenkins lurched forward, scratching at his forearms, tweaking. “No harm in asking, man,” he said, “no harm in asking.”

Mickey sidestepped, sighing, trying to make his way past Jenkins who was staggering and and swaying under the influence of withdrawal. “Yeah, well go ask some other motherfucker.”

“You’re bleeding,” Jenkins said, stabbing at Mickey’s chest with his finger. “Why you bleeding? Why? You holding out on me? What?”

Mickey bit down on his bottom lip, teeth scraping over the flesh, trying to stifle the wince from his tattoo. Holy fucking shit. He was in a foul mood, and Jenkins was really working his last nerve.

“You’re bleeding,” Jenkins repeated.

Mickey exhaled, chuckled, head shaking in disbelief. His body hummed, vibrating in annoyance and anger, and that familiar feeling - the anticipation, that small shiver of excitement. He clenched his fist, cracked his knuckles, even laughed a little. And when he his fist made contact with Jenkins’ face he thought of the Southside and that Sammi bitch, and Ian and his own fucking father, and every single thing that had happened to lead him here, to the Chicago MCC, this cement prison in the sky. His fist pounded into Jenkins’ cheekbones, over and over, as his target writhed and fought desperately underneath him. Mickey could feel the blood on his fists, that feeling of cool against his knuckles, the air rushing over his bloodied hands as he sank his fist into Jenkins’ face. One, two, three more times.

“Inmate 47609!”

That was Mickey - the number was ingrained on him now, as if it were his own name. Mickey leapt off Jenkins, standing up, hands in the air, surrendering. He smirked wryly at the guard, laughing in the face of authority, like he always did. He was about to be sent to the shu, there was no point arguing or fighting it.

“Now we’re both fuckin’ bleeding,” he sneered, a sideways glance at Jenkins before making eye contact with the guard for the first time. It was that female guard. Some new bitch they’d transferred from county; she was big and stocky but unsure of herself, insecure even - the kind of traits that could be sniffed out a mile away in a place like this. 

“Back to your cell, inmate,” the guard barked at Jenkins as he picked himself up from the floor, “and clean yourself up.”

Jenkins nodded quickly, clutching his stomach and his battered face as he scurried off, a trail of blood behind him, scarlet dots peppering the grey tiled floor.

“And you...” she pointed a finger in Mickey’s direction, and he noticed her hands were shaking, apprehensive.

Mickey stared back at the guard, lips curled up into a sneer, eyebrows raised. “What?”

The guard was silent, staring back in Mickey’s direction. She had hesitated, doubted herself, Mickey could sense it. He’d been in this situation enough times in his life to know she wasn’t going to do shit; she was too nervous. Mickey stared at her, holding eye contact as he huffed a low laugh, mocking her. And then the guard swallowed and Mickey was sure he saw heat pooling in her cheeks, a small flush of colour as her eyes wandered, raking over him. Jesus fucking christ, the bitch was checking him out. 

The guard paused, clearing her throat, hand inching toward the gun holstered at her hip. “Go back to your cell, inmate.”

Mickey nodded, smirked one final time. “Thought so,” he said, taking a few long steps backwards in the direction of his cell, “ain’t got it in ya to write me up.”

Bless that fucking useless bitch.

* * *

The metal door slammed closed behind him, buzzing locked as Mickey re-entered his cell. Damon looked up at Mickey from where he sat hunched over their tiny steel desk, chewing gum and ripping pictures out of magazines. He always seemed to be doing that lately.

“The fuck happened, homie?” Damon cast his eyes over the blood seeping through Mickey’s tank top and drying on his fists.

Mickey sighed. His head was throbbing and he was tired. Really fucking tired, just needed to lay down for a bit. “Ain’t in the mood for questions,” he snapped, hauling himself up onto his top bunk. “Feel like fucking shit.”

“Still fucked up over Ga-lah-gah, huh?” Damon shook his head, made a gang sign with one hand. “Fuck him, _si_? _Pinche hijo de puta madre_.”

Mickey seethed, fifty different responses running through his head. Damon didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. He didn’t know the first fucking thing about Ian or what was going through Mickey’s head. Damon didn’t know shit. “How ‘bout you shut the fuck up?” he spat back, defensiveness rising in his chest like bile. “Go back to your pretty little scrapbook or whatever the fuck that elementary school shit is you’re doing there.”

Damon shrugged, unfazed, as he took the gum from his mouth, using it to stick the magazine clippings on the wall. Mickey watched in silence, face set in a scowl, as the wall above their desk slowly transformed into a makeshift collage, dotted with pictures of the beach. 

“Mexico, homie,” Damon said, gesturing towards the wall, “gonna get back there after I finish in this place.”

“Yeah?” Mickey snorted, feeling strangely annoyed by this conversation, kinda resentful. “In twenty-five years when you’re fucking sixty?”

“You ever been to the beach?”

“Course I ain’t been to the fucking beach,” Mickey laid down on his mattress, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t even want to listen. A shiver rattled over his body and he felt suddenly cold. Cold, sweaty and warm all at once. Tomorrow he’d go to the infirmary, get some antibiotics.

“At the beach all you gotta do is relax, homie,” Damon continued, almost wistful. “Can do that at any age.”

“Sounds fucking boring.”

Damon snorted, and Mickey could hear the crinkle of paper as he attached more pictures to the wall. _“Prison_ is boring. Mexico is _paraíso_.. a paradise, Mickey,” he continued, lips making smacking sounds, chewing up more gum to use as glue. “You got beach and mountains, palm trees, all the tequila you can drink. Always warm there, not like here.. not like Chicago.” 

Mickey rolled over onto his side, sighing. He pulled his book out from under his pillow, the one he’d borrowed from the prison library. It was some high school reading list title, but it was easy to read, helped take his mind off things. “Great,” he mumbled blithely. “I’m real happy for ya.”

“Need something to think about, man. On the outside. Or this shit in here..” Damon paused, and Mickey could imagine him gesturing around their cell, speaking with his body as well as his words. “It gets too much,” he continued, “I seen it happen many times. Prison make you crazy.”

Mickey closed his eyes, shut his book and tossed it towards the end of his bunk. He could feel himself getting lost inside his head, thoughts swirling in his mind, considering everything Damon had just told him. Eight years he’d be in this cell for. Eight fucking years. What the hell was he going to do when he got out? He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t been able to think past his visits with Ian. But Ian wasn’t going to wait for him, so he really needed to get past that, pull the pin on that idea. Maybe if he’d been sentenced to only a few months, _maybe then_ him and Ian would get back together. But his sentence was longer than the amount of time they’d even known each other. Shit.

Mickey swallowed, feeling nauseous, a little bit sick, and he imagined going back to his house on the Southside; the same old broken down house in his shitty neighbourhood, the same shithead neighbours. Fuck knows what his brothers would be doing eight years from now. His entire family would probably have been thrown in the can by then.

The beach really didn’t sound boring, he had to admit. It sounded kinda nice; something he hadn’t experienced before, hadn’t even seen. So, maybe he could set himself up near a beach somewhere, get an actual fucking job. Some place away from Chicago, where no one knew him and his name didn’t come with a warning. Somewhere sunny all the time where it didn’t fucking snow. Shit, maybe he’d eventually even meet someone who would reignite that fire he’d felt - _still felt_ \- for Ian.

Mickey felt a little flutter, a little excitement in his veins. For the first time since he'd been in the joint - maybe the first time ever - he was thinking about the future; what to do _after,_ when he was free, when his eight years were finally up. Damon was fucking right. He just needed something to focus on, something to hold onto while he rode this sentence out.

“Mexico, huh,” Mickey heard himself say out loud, and Damon hummed in response on the other side of their tiny cell. 

Mickey rolled over, facing the wall, letting thoughts of palm trees, and tequila, and winters that didn’t feel like winter at all, dance behind his eyes. When he fell asleep he dreamed about the ocean and beach, maybe even learning to swim.

Mexico.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Real life caught up with me, so I was a little slow at updating - sorry! I'll have another Chapter up in a few days, and it will be Mickey and Raul asf. 
> 
> I hope this chapter wasn't too depressing, I thought it ended on a hopeful note. This is all part of my plan to make sense of Mickey's ridiculous prison escape storyline and put the pieces of his new life together. Please bear with me :) It will be worth it.


	7. New Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Raúl

Raúl tucks his hair behind his ears as he leans over his guitar, resting de-stringed and silent on the coffee table in front of him. There’s something peaceful about this ritual of changing the strings, something beautiful. It always feels like therapy to Raúl - just him and his guitar, working at it as he slowly brings the instrument back to life with his hands. String by string, his fingers work seamlessly around the cold, thin steel as it digs into his skin; firm pressure and knots and the straining wince of metal stretching as it’s pulled taut. He’s done this so many times by now, probably thousands of times if he was actually keeping score, he can relax his mind, really zone out and he still _just knows_ how to get the job done. Muscle memory. That’s probably what it’s called, but it feels like more than that to Raúl, more than a habit; a definite ritual, but something akin to instinct, perhaps. And it’s what he needs right now; he needs the silence and the downtime and to just let his mind wander, to take stock of everything that’s happened these last few weeks. 

_Mickey._

Mickey has happened. Raúl laughs quietly, smiles to himself, because he can’t stop thinking about that short, rude little gringo with the pretty blue eyes. It’s been a funny couple of weeks. A _great_ couple of weeks since him and Mickey first fucked, but different. Definitely unexpected. It’s been a long time since he’s spent that amount of time with anyone other than Alejandra. He has plenty of friends, and sure, there’s been other guys; one night stands, booty calls, friends with benefits, whatever. But that intimacy, allowing himself to be interested in another person, to just _be_ with another person, that’s been missing from his life for a while. And he hasn’t given into that pull, that feeling in his gut that tells him this is someone he wants to be around - well he hasn’t done that, hasn’t even wanted to do that since before. Since Diego.

Raúl huffs quietly, his lips pulled into a half smile, a small nod. It feels different now, thinking about Diego and _all of that._ It doesn’t hurt to think about what happened anymore, not like it used to when his wounds were still fresh and painful and even the most innocent reminder could send him free falling without warning. Back then he was taunted by an endless spiral of what ifs and maybes - what if he hadn’t been late, if he’d left the house ten minutes earlier, if he hadn’t sent that text. There’s still sadness inside him sometimes, a little twinge in his heart, a few seconds here and there, but it’s no longer heavy, doesn’t feel suffocating like it did. Now the sadness floats to the surface, his heart and his mind’s way of reminding him to breathe, to stop and take a look around him, to notice and appreciate and to live. And then the sadness sinks and fades until it has mostly disappeared, submerged and silent and barely there - looking out for him in its own way, ready to remind him how far he’s come and that he’s survived.

Raúl thinks for a moment, does the maths in his head, working out how long it’s actually been since Diego. He counts backwards in years; month after month of his life punctuated with memories, landmarks of time in his mind. Three years. It’s been almost three years to the day since it happened. He’s changed a lot in that time after being dealt the cruelest of hands. Yet somehow he feels more at peace right now than he ever has. People make more sense to him, _life_ makes more sense to him now. He’d spent so long back when it had first happened, looking for answers that he hadn’t realised were impossible to find. He needed to know _why_ and _how -_ how someone could be with him one moment and gone the next. _Just like that._ But he gets it now. He understands. Sometimes in life things _just happen,_ without reason or warning. Raúl knows that now and he believes it - believes _in_ it. But it took him a long time to arrive at that acceptance, to feel at peace among the chaos. Because he always needs to know the why, and the how - to understand. That’s just who he is, who he’s always been. He needs to find the meaning behind the words, that truth below the surface. It’s something he’s always searched for; with life, with music, with people. Maybe that’s why he’s so drawn to this blue eyed gringo with the foul mouth and the warnings on his fists, and why he can’t stop thinking about him, his mind alive with questions and possibilities and desire. 

Raúl feels himself smiling, cheeks pinched into a grin; wide and goofy and warm on his lips. There’s a flutter in his chest, a shiver rippling over his spine as his mind wanders back to Mickey. Mickey, whose words say, _I don’t care_ , _whatever_ , _if that’s what you want_ , while his body says _please_ , _more_ , _I want this_ , _don’t go_. There’s more to Mickey than his words and those knuckle tattoos, Raúl can sense it. He’s seen it in the way Mickey looks at him when he thinks Raúl isn’t paying attention. He’s felt it in the way Mickey touches him - gentle and soft with fingers that bely their threat - and the way their bodies melt together after they’ve fucked. Mickey is sexy as hell with that attitude and that swagger - and he’s pretty too with those ice blue eyes, and full lips. But there’s definitely more, something real inside Mickey; a softness underneath, cradled and protected by that prickly exterior. Armour.

“Like a cactus,” Raúl whispers to himself and laughs a little, thinks about the ass kicking Mickey would threaten him with if he’d heard him. Raúl pulls on the final guitar string, wraps it around the tuner, pulling, turning bringing the final string to life, making it right again. 

A door slams inside the house and Alejandra shuffles into the living room, eyes blinking as she adjusts to the morning sunlight. She’s still in her pajamas, black hair a mess around her shoulders. She rubs at her eyes, staring at Raúl, a look of surprise washing over her face; a double take of sorts. “Good morning,” she says, blinking, continuing her tired shuffle into the kitchen, “haven’t seen you in weeks. I forgot you even lived here.”

Raúl laughs, looks up from his guitar, “I’ve been busy..“ he pauses, choosing his words carefully, “hanging out with a friend.”

Alejandra laughs, that knowing laugh that Raúl has heard a thousand times before. “Oh, a _friend_ ,” she says with a smirk, as she busies herself making coffee. “And this _friend_ is a guy?

He takes a deep breath, nods, preparing himself for the interrogation, the well-meaning concern from his best friend. They’ve been looking out for each other for so long now, and that protectiveness - that mama bear thing - Alejandra is good at it, she’s perfected it. So Raúl knows it’s only a matter of time before he’ll be answering her questions, trying to convince her that he’s got this.

“Yes,” he says, lips pulling up into a grin again because he can’t stop himself from smiling whenever he thinks of Mickey, “my friend is a guy.”

Alejandra giggles, hums thoughtfully as she pours coffee into two cups and pads back to the living room. Raúl takes his coffee and settles back on the couch, feet resting on the table in front of him. He may as well settle in for this conversation, make himself comfortable.

“Interesting,” Alejandra muses, all faux innocence and curious eyebrows. She shifts in her chair, fingers tapping against the armrest, thinking. “So you like this friend?”

Raúl nods, sipping slowly at the hot mug in his hands. “I do, yeah,” he says and a wave of heat travels over his skin because that’s the first time he’s thought of this _thing_ between him and Mickey in those terms. He likes Mickey. Really likes him. “I like him alot.”

Alejandra sips at her coffee, humming again and Raúl can almost see her mind working, the questions swimming inside her head as they make their way to her lips. “Is it anyone I know?”

Raúl chuckles, his cheeks turning pink, blushing. He bites down on his lip, stifling the laugh that bubbles in his chest. He remembers the day he first met Mickey, when Alejandra had walked in, Raúl’s head between Mickey’s legs staring at the hard on pulsing underneath his shorts. They’d separated like a pair of teenagers caught making out and his best friend had been none the wiser. “Well you did meet him once,” he begins, looking down at the coffee swirling in his cup, trying to hide his grin. “He was here one time, when you came home-”

“Oh..?” Alejandra interrupts him, then pauses, eyebrows knitted in concentration. Her thinking face. Raúl watches her expression shift as she pieces the memories together. “Oh, Raúl!” she exclaims, palm hitting her against her forehead. “That gringo? Do you really think that’s a good idea? Getting involved with a tourist-”

“He’s not a tourist, Aleja,” Raúl says quickly, shaking his head. “He lives in Mexico. Here, in the city.”

Alejandra relaxes a little, sits back in the armchair, feet tucked up underneath her. “But what if he goes back to the United States?”

Raúl exhales slowly, his breath caught between a laugh and a sigh. He’s thought about this - wondered if Mickey will go back home anytime soon, if he plans on leaving Mexico. But it’s more a passing curiosity than an actual concern because Raúl feels so good, so happy spending time with Mickey and he knows better than anyone that life can change in a heartbeat. Things that are precious can break, people can disappear and life can be derailed. After everything he’s been through, he owes it to himself to follow the trail that keeps leading him to Mickey, to see how the spark flickering between them ignites and how long it burns.

“If he goes back to the United States, he goes back to the United states,” Raúl shrugs, chuckling, watching his best friend’s face, her eyes rolling in familiar exasperation. 

Alejandra is silent for a minute, before she nods. “Okay,” she says and Raúl can almost see the mama bear inside her retracting her claws, retreating. “Okay. So you like him. And he likes you?”

Raúl drinks another mouthful of coffee, buying himself time. Alejandra doesn’t need to know that Mickey won’t kiss him, or that he doesn’t stay over at Mickey’s house because he’s never been asked. She doesn’t need to know any of that because it sounds bad on paper, sounds like a lost cause. But yeah, Mickey likes him. Raúl _just knows_.

“I think..” Raúl pauses, bites down on his lip. There’s really no reason to play this down - they like each other. Mickey’s bravado and his defences are just part of their story, a minor detail. “Yeah, he does.”

Alejandra nods again, a small smile. “This is kind of a big deal, then,” she says, her brown eyes making contact with Raúl’s. He can can see a hint of sadness, a brief flash of darkness flickering behind them and he knows what his best friend is thinking, that she’s thinking about before - because Diego wasn’t only his loss, he was Alejandra’s too. They were friends - best friends - the three of them almost inseparable for so long. _Years._

Raúl nods, because it is a big deal. Meeting Mickey, having feelings for him, is actually a really big deal, and it feels so good to experience a connection with someone new, to want to immerse himself in another person finally. But at the same time, it feels a little sad, kind of bittersweet, because he’s closing a chapter on his life now - on his and Alejandra's life - storing the book on the shelf, and telling his best friend that he’s finished. 

“I’m just looking out for you,” Alejandra leans forward, clasping her mug between both hands. “Like you look out for me.”

“I know,” Raúl runs a hand through his hair, nodding, teeth scraping against his bottom lip, “us against the world.”

Alejandra sets her mug down on the coffee table, places a hand on Raúl’s knee. “It’s been a long time, huh?” She says. ”You’re ready for this?”

Raúl inhales deeply, looks down at the floor and then back up to Alejandra’s dark eyes. He is ready. Completely. “Yeah,” he says, a smile creeping across his lips, his free hand moving down to squeeze his friend’s. “I think I’ve been ready ready for a while now.”

Alejandra nods, smiles. “I love you, Raúl,” she says, her voice quiet, a little shaky. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I love you, too.”

They’re silent for a minute or two, happy enough to let the silence speak for them, before Alejandra walks back to her room, running a hand over Raúl’s head as she passes him. Raúl returns to his guitar, checking the tension on the new strings. He feels relieved, lighter somehow, after telling Alejandra about Mickey. He doesn’t need her approval, but still - it feels good to have told his best friend that he likes someone. It makes this strange dance he and Mickey have been doing these past few weeks feel real, almost normal. 

Raúl closes his eyes, hits the tuning fork on the table, ears trained on the note that fills the air around him with a low hum. His fingers work between the tuners and the frets, slowly hitting that sweet spot on every string. But the weight of his phone feels heavy and alive in his pocket, because all that _talk_ about Mickey and all Raúl really wants to do is _see_ him again. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through their previous messages and laughs, smiles at the memories; weeks worth of random conversation and abusive texts in Spanish and English sent back and forth for their own amusement. 

He taps out a message, asks Mickey if he wants to do something tomorrow, watching as the little dots appear so he knows that Mickey is typing. _Whatever. If that’s what you want,_ Mickey replies and Raúl snorts a laugh, shakes his head because the response doesn’t surprise him at all. They’re still playing this game - curious cat and ambivalent mouse - but Raúl finds himself enjoying it anyway. Their game feels new and exciting and Raúl is becoming quickly addicted to the feeling of being a little wary, never quite knowing exactly where he’s putting his foot. He hasn’t chased anyone like this for a long time so he’s enjoying the pursuit, the push and pull - that back and forth. 

_It’s cool. If you’re not up for doing anything, I’ll head out for a drink with some friends,_ Raúl types back, grinning to himself. That ought to do it.

Raúl moves to place his phone on the table in front of him, but it buzzes again while it’s still in his hand. _What time you coming over then?_ Mickey responds. Raúl smirks, a small sense of pride that his move paid off, just as he knew it would. He chuckles to himself as they continue texting, setting up the details.

He picks up his guitar again, plays a few chords. The strings ring out tuned, but shrill, and Raúl cringes because new strings never sound _quite right_ , always sound a little too new, a little jangly. But he knows to be patient, to just wait it out. New strings need to be practiced and played and broken in - and eventually they’ll mellow out, beautiful and whole and real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys liked this! This is a little peek into who Raúl is and some hints at things that have happened in his life and why he's so attracted to Mickey. We will be hearing from him again ;)
> 
>   
> .  
> 


	8. Three Ingredients

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... and a pet makes three.
> 
> There's one instance of low-key casual racism in this chapter. It's pretty minor, but fair warning.

Mickey groans, his eyes closed, licking his lips around his full mouth. Fuck that’s good. He moans again, savouring the taste as he swallows, downing his mouthful in one large gulp.

“Holy shit,” he laughs, eyes open again, shaking his head. “You didn’t tell me you could cook, bitch.”

Sofia rolls her eyes, laughing around her corn cob. “Maybe I would have, if I’d known you were serious about living on the Pop Tarts, Mickey,” she says, punctuating each word with a wave of the corn. “You will get sick from no vitamins.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, wipes his mouth on his hand. “Ay, I buy food from the street vendors all the fucking time,” he snorts, but there’s a laugh tickling in the back of his throat. There’s no malice in his conversations with Sofia - none of that venom that filtered through his words back in Chicago. Maybe it’s the weather having some bullshit effect on his brain, or maybe it’s because he’s not Mickey Milkovich to anyone down here; no history, no past, no priors. Whatever. He enjoys hanging out with Sofia because she thinks his snark and his sarcasm are funny, think it’s just the way Americanos are. “I got _torta de chilaquiles_ for breakfast just this morning, fuck you very much.”

“Listen to you with your Spanish, gringo,” Sofia nods with a grin, raising her beer in his direction. “Estoy orgulloso!” _I am proud._

“Shut the fuck up,” he drawls, embarrassed, but meets her beer with his own and a loud _clink,_ regardless. He pulls apart the last remaining piece of bun on his plate, inspects the filling - potato and onion, chilli and that spanish sausage thing he really fucking likes - before popping it into his mouth, savouring the last of it before it’s gone. “The fuck is this anyway? Some sort of burger?”

Sofia laughs, “Not quite a burger, Mickey,” she says, shaking her head. “It is pambazo de papas con chorizo.”

Mickey sighs, repeats the words in his head. _Pambazo de papas con chorizo. Pambazo de papas con chorizo_. His head swims with the new Spanish words as it always does as he tries to memorize them and he can already feel the words fading from memory, floating away like so many new phrases before them. Fuck, he really needs to start writing this shit down. 

Softa hums thoughtfully, eyebrows creased in thought. “It is..” she says, waving her hands, trying to summon her english words, “what you call bread roll with potatoes and chorizo, si? Spanish sausage.”

“It’s good, whatever the fuck it is.”

“I could show you how to make a few simple things, Mickey,” Sofia says with a laugh, “and you can teach me more English swearing. We will help each other, si? A trade.”

Mickey gulps the last of his beer, swishes the liquid around in his mouth, thinking it over. Shit, he’s never really cooked anything before, never really needed to. Mandy and Svetlana and then later the prison cooks always did the cooking in Chicago. But down here, he’s been living off Pop Tarts and frozen pizzas and hot dogs from the international food aisle at the supermarket. It wouldn’t hurt to learn how to cook a few things, try something different maybe; fresh start, second chances and all that shit. Hell, it would probably be cheaper too. 

“Aight,” he agrees finally, a small nod. “But I ain’t cooking nothin’ with more than three ingredients.”

Sophia leans backwards in her chair, taking out two more beers from the fridge. “Three ingredients..” she repeats, handing a beer to Mickey. ”Está bien. But I will not count tortillas because they are like bread slice and sometimes a utensil or a plate.”

Mickey shakes his head, “Fine,” he agrees with a shrug, smirks as he watches his friend open her beer with a bottle opener, gingerly and cautious. He hits the top of his beer on the edge of the table instead, cap flying off across the kitchen with a clatter but Sofia only laughs.

“Another cheers, yes?” she grins gesturing with her drink, and Mickey snorts, thinks he’ll live to regret telling Sofia the English word for a toast. “Cheers, Mickey! Salud y tres ingredientes,” Sofia laughs, hitting her bottle against Mickey’s once more. _To health and three ingredients._

“To me not setting fire to the kitchen, more to the fucking point.” He sculls a long mouthful from his beer, bottle hitting against his teeth as his phone vibrates in his pocket - a text message. He already knows it’s Raúl replying to the insult he sent him earlier. He smiles around the bottle, his cheeks get a little warm.

 _Pendejo_ , the message reads. He smirks because he’s heard that one before, knows it means idiot in Spanish.

 _Assface,_ he types back, remembering it was always Mandy’s word of choice, her favourite insult to level at him back in the day. Mickey blinks, shakes the thought from his mind and stares at the word as the message sends; a little piece of Southside being secretly passed on to this weird half-friend, half-booty-call he’s made down here.

 _Ass face? Sounds good. Is that an invitation?_ Mickey snorts in disbelief at the reply, tries to force the smile off his face. This guy is unbelievable. So fucking cocky, persistent and.. well, shit, he’s hard to resist.

Mickey pauses for a second, thumb hovering over the send button as he reads his reply, tries to summon his snark, his usual cockiness. But his words stare back at him, flat and straightforward. _Gotta work tonight._ _Come around tomorrow?_ Fuck it. Mickey takes a deep breath, hits send. Done. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and sighs, cursing himself and wonders when the wall he’d built around himself had started to crumble and he’d allowed Raúl to walk right in.

Sofia clears her throat, kicks Mickey under the table and he startles, eyebrows raised. “So, how _is_ Raúl?” she asks, voice playful, bordering on a laugh. 

Mickey closes his eyes, palms at his forehead in frustration. “Fuck,” he sighs, because he hates talking about this shit. “Who the fuck said it was Raúl, anyways?”

Sofia sighs, exaggerated and dramatic, “Mickey, you don’t know that many people,” she shrugs. Mickey opens and closes his mouth, searches for a quip to shoot her down, but the words won’t come and Sofia continues before he even has a chance to roll his eyes. “And who else would make you smile like that from a single text message,” she teases, eyebrows raised.

A shiver travels over his skin, that electric spark of excitement he feels whenever he thinks about Raúl, thinks about the two of them. And then the shiver is followed, as it always is, by that feeling in his stomach, that pleasant flutter that started as a niggling little twist all those weeks ago and has grown into an irritatingly warm churning in his gut.

‘We’re just friends,” he mutters, half-assed and unconvincing, as he fumbles with the label on his beer, avoiding Sofia’s eyes.

Sofia nods, hums in a way that is somehow both skeptical and thoughtful. “Friends who also fuck. And then you hang out, watch tv and play games,” she teases, and Mickey looks up, meeting her eyes briefly, teeth scraping against the inside of his cheek. He inhales, holds his breath, predicting the next words from her mouth.

“You like him, Mickey.”

He exhales, breath escaping his lips in a long, almost comical huff. There it is. _You like him, Mickey._ Those four words, simple and honest, but so heavy with consequence he feels as though they’re mocking him. Yeah, okay.. he likes Raúl. So fucking what. He can’t deny his feelings anymore, at least to himself - not like he could when they first started hooking up. Because his feelings have grown with each night spent they’ve spent fucking and watching shitty telenovelas and getting high together. Now he doesn’t only want to fuck Raúl; he wants to play video games and get high with him and fucking _talk_. And he regrets letting Raúl leave, not asking him to stay over every night now when he’s in his empty bed alone. So, yeah. He fucking likes Raúl. Who gives a shit.

“Whatever,” he mutters, shaking his head, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“He seems really nice, Mickey,” Sofia continues, her voice soft with encouragement. “Muy lindo. Very cute. You don't want to date him?”

Mickey huffs a short, sharp breath, Sofia’s words like tiny little barbs stabbing him in his throat and chest. He’s never even been on a proper date before. Shit, he’s only just admitted to himself that he fucking likes Raúl. Thinking about dating the guy - that’s a new concept. He chews on his bottom lip, stares at the woodgrain of Sofia’s kitchen table. If things were different, if he was different, would he date Raúl? Maybe. Maybe he could do that if he and Raúl had met on some other timeline, in some alternate universe, then yeah - they could date, and kiss, see what happens. But this is reality, not some science fiction romcom and real life ripped his heart out, smashed it and pieced it back together under lock and key. There’s just no way he can do the boyfriend thing, not again. He needs get over this stupid crush he has on Raúl - his friend - so they can continue hanging out and fucking without any added complications.

“He’s not my type,” Mickey replies finally, and Sofia just stares at him, her face set in a look of utter disbelief. He sighs and gulps a large mouthful of his beer. “Too fucking tall,” he adds, wincing, his stomach curling; betraying him as he thinks of how fucking good it feels when Raúl’s lank towers over him. He downs the last of his beer, tosses the empty bottle in Sofia’s trash can. “And he’s got too many fucking tattoos,” he mutters, another lie. He gnaws his bottom lip, stifling the whine sitting ready in his throat, because he really fucking likes Raúl’s tattoos. They’re badass and they look fucking hot and he wonders what they all mean, what his skin would taste like if he sucked and bit and licked at them-.

“Estoy bien! I’m convinced, Mickey,” Sofia says, sarcasm dripping from her voice as she stacks their dirty plates in the sink. “Raúl sounds awful. It would never work between the two of you.” 

Mickey snorts quietly. Smartass bitch. But Sofia is right, even when she thinks she’s being funny - he and Raúl would never work. Maybe things would be okay for a while, probably even good - but it wouldn’t last. It would all end for some fucked up reason and the last thing he needs is another breakup, another emotional mindfuck like that bullshit at the Mexican border.

He’s just gotta keep Raúl at arm’s length. It’s really that simple. He’s acting like a fucking teenager girl with a crush and he needs to keep himself in check, get ahold of himself before he’s followed Raúl too far down this road that he can’t turn around.

* * *

Raúl tucks the six pack of beer under his arm as he turns the corner onto Mickey’s street. A cool breeze whistles past him, rustling the leaves of the palm trees overhead, tempering the thick heat of the evening air. The whine of a scooter engine breaks through the quiet as it passes, then fades as it disappears into the distance. It’s his favourite time of night - the early evening - when the streets are mostly quiet, peaceful and still, almost empty, and the sun is low in the sky. Warm light and long shadows. 

It’s only been two days since he and Mickey last saw each other, but Raúl has missed him. Sometimes he feels silly, missing him after only a matter of days but he’s loving every second of this slow dance with Mickey. And his persistence has begun paying off too, because Mickey has finally dropped that facade of disinterest, has started inviting Raúl over, reaching out with a text message when Raúl goes quiet, daring Mickey to make a move.

There’s a yelling sound in the distance, and a flock of birds take flight from a tree, squawking and startled and Raúl watches as they scatter in the sky overhead. He’s still a couple of houses away from Mickey’s place when he hears it again; a definite, angry yelling, growing louder with each step. He pauses for a second, tuning his ear to the sound; a woman’s voice, yelling in Spanish, _you idiot, you’re a rude and stupid man_. He laughs quietly, continues walking until he hears something that sends a shiver up his spine.

“I can’t fucking understand you! I don’t speak fucking Espanol!”

Mickey. 

Raúl would know that voice anywhere - irritated, impatient and rife with disdain - his very first introduction to Mickey back on the beach that time. There's still something about Mickey’s frustrated yelling that makes him laugh and he's grinning as he jogs the rest of the way to his house.

Raúl scales the side gate and his smile freezes on his face as he takes in the scene that greets him; Mickey standing in the backyard barefoot in a tanktop and boxers, arms folded, his face a frustrated scowl while a tiny old woman yells at him in Spanish, calls him rude and disobedient. It takes Raúl a minute to fully understand, to realise his eyes aren't deceiving him and that yes, the woman actually is holding a rope with a goat tethered to the end. That’s something he doesn’t see everyday.

“Hola,” he says, waving tentatively with his free hand, and Mickey looks up at him, runs a hand through his hair, his scowl softening, a half-smile taking its place. “What’s going on?”

Mickey laughs lowly, derisive. “This bruja here,” he snorts, gestures to the woman, “my landlord, s’trying to offload this fucking goat onto me.”

Raúl sucks his lips between his teeth, tries not to laugh at Mickey, and the goat - shit, the entire situation, really. “Let me translate, Mickey, yes?” He offers, stepping around the goat to stand beside him. He resists the urge to touch him, just a hand on the small of Mickey’s back for moral support, or for the contact, Raúl isn’t sure. 

Mickey rubs a hand over his face, whines in frustration. “This bitch is fucking crazy, man,” he mutters under his breath, “and her English is goddamn terrible.”

“Just like your Spanish,” Raúl smirks, rubs Mickey’s shoulder as he teases him, his hand lingering for a second too long. He can’t help himself. “I’ll sort this out for you, don’t worry.”

* * *

An hour or so later, they’re sitting on Mickey’s back steps, the sun setting around them, each of them with their back against the siderails, facing each other. Raúl turns his head, watches as the goat stands idly, tied to a tap in the corner of Mickey’s yard, sniffing curiously at the rope. “He’ll chew through that rope, eventually,” Raúl muses, taking another drag from his cigarette. He looks back at Mickey, exhaling smoke. “You’ll need to get him a chain.”

Mickey snorts, kicks at Raúl’s boots with his bare foot. “I don’t give a shit if he runs away, man.”

Raúl laughs, gives Mickey’s knee a playful shake. “Yes, but the bruja will. She might cast a spell on you. Turn you into a princess,” he smirks, watches as Mickey raises his eyebrows, icy blue eyes meeting his own. Raúl licks his lips, holds eye contact. “And.. I wouldn’t like that. 

There’s silence for a few seconds, the air between them thick with tension and Raúl can barely breath, because all he can think about is leaning over to kiss Mickey, telling him that he thinks he’s funny when he’s irritated, that he likes his lips and his eyes and that he sees him - really sees him. 

“You’re such a fucking weirdo,” Mickey says, turning his head, his voice a low chuckle, and just like that, the tension is broken - a stone dropped into water, spreading calm in ripples between them.

Raúl shrugs, laughing as he gives Mickey the finger.

“Ay,” Mickey says suddenly, kicking Raúl on the shin, “you claim you sorted this shit out for me, but I’ve still got a fucking goat to worry about. How’s that work, huh?”

Raúl grins, brings his beer bottle to his lips, chuckling as he swallows a large mouthful. “The goat belonged to the bruja’s sister, but she can’t take care of him anymore,” he watches as Mickey rolls his eyes. Raúl leans forward, flicking his fingers against Mickey’s forehead, playful. “Hey, I got her to reduce your rent by a third. Fuck you.”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Mickey shoots back, cocky and sure of himself, daring Raúl to argue. “It’ll almost cover his food.”

“He’ll eat the grass for free,” Raúl counters, smirking, running a hand through his hair. “Just throw him some vegetable scraps every now and then.”

“Whose side are you on huh? Mine or the fucking goat’s?”

Raúl leans his head back, laughing. “Yours, Mickey! And his.” He nods towards the goat, ducking as Mickey throws a bottle cap at him. “I like animals, okay? You have any pets back in the United States?”

Mickey snorts, sounds like he might choke on his beer. “Fuck, no,” he says quickly, sneers a little. “We weren’t.. we ain’t - not that kinda family.”

Raúl nods, smoking the last of his cigarette, then exhales, stubbing the butt out with his Converse. He bites down on his tongue, because he’d love to ask, would love to know what Mickey meant by that; _not that kinda family._

“Actually,” Mickey laughs a little, finishes the remainder of his beer. “We did have a fucking goldfish once.” 

Raúl grins. “That’s a huge commitment.”

“Thanks smartass,” Mickey snaps back, smirking. “Anyways, it got real big, and when it died one of my brothers took its body outta the tank. Left it sitting on the microwave rotting for a fucking month cos no one could be bothered moving it.”

“Ugh.. asqueroso.” _Disgusting._

“Yeah,” Mickey sighs, shrugging. “Still ain’t the worst thing to happen in that house.”

Raúl inhales sharply, as Mickey’s words chill him from the inside out, goosebumps from his neck to his toes. _Still ain’t the worst thing to happen in that house._ He looks down at his shoes, scrapes his teeth over his lip, trying to push the thoughts to the back of his mind; his madre and his padre, and everything that happened before his abuela had finally found him and his sister. He doesn’t think about that anymore, hasn’t in years. But he really wants to know what Mickey meant, because he thinks - shit, he _knows_ , he can sense it - that he and Mickey have more in common than he thought. 

Raúl hums thoughtfully, changes the subject. “Did you know goats are really smart, Mickey? They can be taught tricks.” Mickey raises his eyebrows, stares at him. “It’s true! Roll over, play dead. Like a dog, you know?”

Mickey chuckles, pulls another cigarette from his pack. “Listen to the goat whisperer over here, huh,” he says, voice muffled from the cigarette balancing between his lips. “Maybe he’ll run away and join the fucking circus?”

Raúl grins, runs a hand through his hair. ”But we could teach him tricks, you know. It might be fun,” he gestures towards the corner of the yard, “the three of us; you, me.. our friend, the goat.”

Mickey huffs quietly, stares into the dusk of the backyard; silence as Raúl’s words sit heavy in the space between them. _You and me. Us._ Raúl cringes. Too familiar, too coupley. He closes his eyes, waits for Mickey’s inevitable push back.

Mickey stands up, throws his cigarette to the ground. He looks down at Raúl, shrugging. “Whatever, Taco Tuesday. You want another drink?”

Taco Tuesday? Raúl scoffs. He expected some snark, some kind of forced indifference - but not.. _that_. “Oye,” he says and he grabs Mickey’s calf, pulls him down so he lands on his lap with a thud, “don’t call me that.” 

“The fuck?” Mickey blinks, shoves at Raúl’s shoulder.

“You can tell me to fuck off and I’ll leave, Mickey,” he holds eye contact as Mickey’s blue eyes dart over his face; wild, skittish. “Push me away if that’s what you want, but don’t call me that.”

Raúl watches Mickey’s face soften as he sucks his lips between his his teeth, a sharp exhale, blue eyes holding fast against green. “Aight,” he says, voice quiet, revealing himself. Soft, vulnerable.

“Do you want me to go?”

“Listen, you know I.. I just.. fuck,” Mickey hits at the railing behind Raúl, the cold metallic clang echoing through the air around them. “I didn’t mean that shit. I don’t think that. I don’t.”

Raúl nods. He understands, he really does; Mickey’s words are his armour, a street sign saying proceed with caution. “Do you want me to go?”

Mickey huffs, rolls his eyes, tells Raúl _no_ without saying a word. But Raúl still wants to hear it, needs to hear the truth from Mickey’s lips.

“Say it,” Raúl says lowly, runs his hand over Mickey’s calf.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey closes his eyes, shakes his head, impatient, ”I don’t want you to fucking go.” He stares at Raúl, eyebrows raised, a small nod; a challenge.

“Good,” Raúl breathes, and he runs a hand over Mickey’s thigh. He’s suddenly and completely aware of Mickey sitting in his lap, straddling him and he feels his dick responding, pressing against his jeans. He runs a finger under the waistband of Mickey's boxers. “Because I want to keep coming around.”

“Mmm,” Mickey hums as Raúl slides his hands inside each leg of Mickey’s shorts, running his fingers over that soft pale skin at the top of his thighs, finding that beautiful, soft curve.

“I like hanging out with you,” Raúl smiles a half-smile, exhales shakily as he cups his hands around Mickey’s ass cheeks, kneads them. “Doing… what we do. You like that, Mickey?”

“You fucking know I do,” Mickey nods and he exhales sharp and hot as Raúl pulls him closer - so close their lips are almost touching, almost kissing. Raúl closes his eyes, savouring that closeness, that tickle of Mickey’s breath against his lips, the slow, subtle warmth radiating from his mouth. Raúl leans forward a hairsbreadth and there’s contact. Lips against lips, just a touch; a butterfly flapping its wings. He shudders, his breath held, trying desperately to control himself, to ignore the ache from his tongue resting heavy and wanting in his mouth. What he wouldn't give to feel his tongue against Mickey’s, fucking each others mouths slow and wet and hot. He exhales finally, searching Mickey’s eyes with his own and Raúl sees him; all the hurt, and the pain and the defences that shield and protect him. Mickey chews on his lip, cheeks turning pink, and Raúl sees the softness, and the fear and the sadness that swaddles the parts of him he tries to keep hidden, too. 

“Fuck,” Mickey rasps, pulls back, and Raúl swallows the sting of disappointment that rises in his throat. He rocks his hips forward, his dick creating friction against his jeans, fingers grabbing handfuls of Mickey’s ass.

“Me encanta tu culo,” _I love your ass,_ Raúl murmurs against Mickey’s neck, moving his fingers across the soft warm flesh of his ass cheeks, soft and light, grazing Mickey’s hole. He traces the cleft, the entrance, that warm ring of muscle, and Mickey whines, hot and desperate and starts rocking his hips, chasing Raúl’s fingers as he teases him. 

“Ohh, fuck.. shit,” Mickey moans low in his throat, and Raúl leans forward, presses his mouth against the column of Mickey’s neck, marking him with tongue and lips and teeth. Mickey groans again and Raúl feels it against his mouth and somehow feels it in his dick as it throbs hot and desperate under his clothes. And then there’s tattooed fingers fumbling desperately at Raúl’s jeans, battling impatiently against his zipper and Raúl hears himself whining and muttering in Spanish and English; _deprisa, si, hurry up, por favor._

Raúl hisses as his dick is finally freed from his jeans and Mickey flicks his thumb over the tip, once, twice, three times, then removes his hand, teasing him. Raúl whines greedily from the loss of contact and Mickey chuckles as Raúl’s dick strains desperately towards his hand.

“Fucking look at this cock,” Mickey mutters and looks up at Raúl, tongue swiping around the edges of his mouth as he wraps his hand around his length. Raúl exhales hotly as Mickey begins working his dick; long, firm strokes, a little twist at the end that makes him hiss.

“Me siento muy bien,” Raúl rasps around waves of pleasure, watching the pre-cum leaking from his dick and he thrusts harder against Mickey’s hand, fucking himself. He exhales slowly, tearing one hand from Mickey’s ass, fumbling in his jeans pocket for the lube, and condom, before slicking up his fingers. He presses two fingers against Mickey’s hole, slides them in easily and it’s so fucking hot, fucking beautiful, because Mickey is always stretched, always ready for him since they fuck so often. He slides in a third finger, smooth and easy, like soft, fresh butter, and the muscles contract around his finger as Mickey thrusts downwards. And then they’re both groaning, hips rolling together, the air filled with hot wet sound of moist, slapping flesh and their ragged desperate breathing.

“M’ready,” Mickey breathes against Raúl’s neck, “you gotta.. fucking.. fuck me.” Then there’s eye contact for a few seconds, a silent conversation; _how do you want it? You know how I want it_ , and then Raúl pushes Mickey from his lap, turns him around and Mickey positions himself on his knees, hands holding onto the railing. And Raúl is on his knees pulling his jeans down, a hand wrapped around his dick and he throws his head back groaning as he works himself quickly, desperately, before rolling on the condom. 

He takes a few deep breaths, pauses for a second, his eyes raking over Mickey at he kneels in front of him, that perfect round ass silvery white against the light of the moon. A gift. “Shit,” Raúl whispers, running a finger down Mickey’s spine to his cleft. How he loves that ass, he dreams about it, can’t stop thinking about it. “Pinche hermoso culo.” He hisses as he moves his finger between Mickey’s cheeks, feels the slick heat of lube against his skin and that hole all stretched out and finger- fucked, just waiting for his dick. Raúl inhales slowly and then he’s pressing his dick against Mickey’s cheeks, rolling his hips, thrusting gently as his dick sits nestled in the valley between the plump mounds of flesh.

“Fuck…” Mickey hisses and Raúl whines from the hot, desperation of Mickey’s voice, leaning forward breathing words in two languages against his neck. And then he pulls away, parts the cheeks with his hand and presses in, breaching him slowly, and they both groan from the pressure and the burn and the anticipation. Raúl bottoms out, wraps one arm around Mickey, holding his chest, lips pressed against his neck, muttering, _you’re so fucking beautiful, pinche increible._ And then he’s rolling his hips, fucking hard at Mickey’s ass with long, deep strokes and Mickey is hot and tight around him, the perfect amount of friction. Raúl’s dick aches and pulses with sweet relief and he bites down on Mickey’s neck, over and over in time with his hips and Mickey whines in front of him, telling Raúl _yes, just like that, fucking love it, right there,_ begging him for _more, more, more,_ with each thrust. Then Raúl leans back on his haunches, slides himself out almost all the way, pausing for a few seconds and Mickey follows, ass in the air, chasing Raúl’s dick, greedy and desperate. 

“Come on,” Mickey groans, pushes himself against Raúl who stills him, his hands rubbing circles on his cheeks. 

Raúl licks his lips, almost drooling at the sight of his dick, the way it disappears inside Mickey. “I…” he stammers, tries to regain some control of his brain, “I need to see it.. need to watch.” He moves his hands to Mickey’s hips, fingers settling there, gripping him, pulling him towards him, the movement pushing his dick deep inside. Mickey takes the hint, because he starts rocking himself backwards, rolling his hips, pushing down onto Raúl over and over.

“Fuck yourself on me,” Raúl rasps, fingers digging further into Mickey’s hips, pulling him towards him, helping him along “Fuck, si, muy bien.. like that… fuck yourself.” Mickey increases speed and Raúl pants and whines as he watches his dick disappear between Mickey’s ass cheeks. Mickey feels so fucking good around him, so damn tight and warm and smooth and he can’t believe it, the way that ass swallows his cock, just eats it right up. Shit, that looks so fucking good. 

“You take my dick so well.. muy perfecto,” Raúl whines because he knows he’s big, but Mickey doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter at all, just fucks himself like he was born to do it - tight, hot friction around Raúl’s dick, bottoming out every time. The perfect fit.

Mickey arches his back as he sinks himself down, deep and hard onto Raúl’s dick, keening. “Got it.. fuck, there.. there,” he moans raggedly and Raúl guides him with his hands on his hips, keeping him steady so he can hit that sweet spot over and over. “Finish me off.. fuck.. finish me.”

Raúl pants and moans as he meets Mickey’s thrusts, closing his eyes, seeing fucking stars. He’s close too, his body is pulsing with desire and he feels the sweet, tingling pleasure building all over his body, down to his toes; that need to come. “You don’t need me,” Raúl whines against Mickey’s neck, “hands free.. you can do it.. you can.”

Mickey groans from deep in his gut, primal and low, and then he’s begging, _please, I need it, finish me off, fucking please, shit,_ but Raúl doesn’t waver, just keeps meeting Mickey’s thrusts over and over, fucking him, getting himself off, getting them both off. “Do it for me, Mickey, si? Por favor, por favor.” 

A handful more thrusts and Raúl doesn’t think he can last, he’s going to come, shit, shit, shit. But then Mickey arches his back, one arm reaching behind him, gripping Raúl at the back of his head, fingers digging into his scalp and pulling at his hair. Then he’s fucking himself on Raúl in short, sharp thrusts, and Raúl follows him, riding the wave of orgasm as it builds and washes over him. Both of them wild, like men possessed. 

Raúl babbles in Spanish as Mickey moans long and low from somewhere deep inside him and he reaches around in front of Mickey’s dick as he comes, letting the hot, sticky wetness drip all over his fingers. Then he’s coming himself, hips stuttering into Mickey, the final waves of pleasure rippling over his body in sweet, pulsing bursts. 

Fucking beautiful.

Raúl hums, leaning forward, wrapping his arms around Mickey who responds with a hand around Raúl’s forearm. Raúl presses his face into his neck, just holds his lips there, imagines they’re kissing. 

“That was so…” he breathes eventually, but he doesn’t finish, can’t really find the words. Mickey hums and nods in agreement, regardless. 

He listens to Mickey’s breathing, feels his chest heaving underneath his arms and he feels overwhelmed, full of emotion. But he bites his tongue, keeping the words from tumbling out. There’s so much he would love to say. 

_I really like you, Mickey. I’m so glad I met you._

* * *

Mickey wakes with a start on the couch, blinking quickly, bringing his eyes into focus. The world outside his window is painted in muted greys, and he knows it’s early morning, right before the sun comes up. He tries to sit up, but there’s a solid weight against his chest and legs. He looks down, whining low in his throat as he takes in the mess of legs and arms that are him and Raúl draped over each other on the couch. Raúl’s head is on Mickey’s chest, his eyes closed, dark brown eyelashes fanning his cheeks; so close, Mickey could count each individual freckle dusted across his nose if the wanted to. His stomach tickles him with its weightless flutter and a bubble swells in his chest. He feels warm suddenly; warm and strangely comfortable, despite, or because of the six foot tall Mexican asleep on top of him. 

There’s a snuffling sound, and Mickey watches Raúl as he stirs slightly. His eyes flicker open, just barely, and then he nuzzles - actually fucking _nuzzles_ \- his face against the fabric of Mickey’s tshirt. And then Mickey’s body starts to move independently from his brain, and his hand moves to Raúl’s cheek and he’s touching him, stroking him softly. The short bristle of Raúl’s stubble brushes quietly against Mickey’s fingertips and he chews on his bottom lip. He watches his thumb moving across Raúl’s cheek, along his jaw, the soft olive skin of his neck. Christ, he’s fucking beautiful.

Mickey exhales, a quiet, breathy “fuck,” when he thinks about the last time he did this, touched someone like this. It’d been right before everything turned to shit and his life changed forever, and the only thing he’d truly cared about ruined. Destroyed. His eyes dart around the room suddenly, nervously and he’s half-expecting to wake up from a dream, for someone to storm his house, dragging him fighting and screaming all the way back to prison. But instead, the damn goat just bleats, and Mickey is reminded of the battle he lost against the bruja. But he also lost the battle with Raúl too - that Taco Tuesday bullshit had truly backfired. Fuck, he really regrets saying that, is actually kinda fucking embarrassed about it. But holy shit, the way Raúl had called him on his bullshit - it just makes Mickey like him all the more. Damn him.

He wonders how this all happened, how he ended up here. The empty bottles and the leftover weed on the coffee table explain why Raúl didn’t make it home, sure. But Mickey had felt fucking ruined when he got to Mexico. Broken. And now somehow he has this boy sleeping on top of him, a pleasant feeling swelling in his chest that he’s unable to shake and the only thing standing between him and inevitable fucking heartbreak is the fact he hasn’t let Raúl kiss him yet. Shit.

Mickey’s fingers are in Raúl’s hair when he stirs again, lifts his head, his eyes heavy with sleep. “Should go home, maybe,” he mumbles, but he makes no attempt to get up, instead he shifts a little and settles back down against Mickey’s chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey shrugs, “S’all good,” and then he manoeuvres himself slightly, rests his head back on the pillow propped against the armrest and closes his eyes. Raúl drapes his arm across Mickey’s chest, a hand resting warm and secure around his bicep and a shiver tickles Mickey’s spine; such a simple gesture, but shit, it feels good. 

Mickey sighs, rolls his eyes beneath his tired lids. He’s screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another slow update! Real life kicked my ass! But the next chapter is writing itself so it won't be too far away. Now I know the goat seems like a random addition but he is, in a way, part of Raul's story so everything will come together.
> 
> Thankyou for reading and commenting! Knowing you are enjoying this story makes me spurs me on!
> 
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> 


	9. Me Gustas

Mickey exhales a long stream of smoke from his cigarette and wonders again if he’s on a date. If he is, he doesn’t know how he feels about it, since he’s been trying to avoid this _exact scenario -_ him and Raúl, together, on a date - for weeks now. But Raúl had appeared at his door, all eager and excited for no real reason that Mickey could see, and it wasn’t like Mickey had been doing anything, he didn’t have any plans. He’d been caught off guard, taken by surprise.

“Estoy enfadado, Mickey!” Raúl said, _I’m bored._ “Let’s go and do something.” And shit, Mickey had felt that flutter in his gut, his heart feeling warm and full in his chest and he’d just nodded, said _okay_ and offered absolutely no resistance at all. None. He’d pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed his keys and followed Raúl out to his car. Mickey’s head was spinning and he’d figured they’d go get some food, bring it back to his place and eat it, watch tv and fuck. The usual. But none of that had happened, because Raúl had been gushing about how it was his favourite time of night, something about the sunset and the beach and whatever the fuck else. And now they’re together at the top of some lookout overlooking their city, sitting on the hood of Raúl’s car, a six pack between them, blanket spread out underneath. 

Mickey takes a long gulp from his beer and looks around him at the waves crashing below them, the sky turning shades of dark blue and purple overhead. He watches Raúl’s tongue as he licks beer off his lips, then looks at Mickey and laughs. That warm feeling rises in Mickey’s chest, his heart fluttering for two, three beats and he sighs, curses himself under his breath, because yeah - yeah, this feels like a date. 

“When the sky is clear like this,” Raúl says, gesturing above them with his beer as he rests back on his elbows, leans back against the windshield, “it reminds me of where I grew up. In the mountains.”

Mickey nods, hums quietly. He sculls another mouthful of beer, and looks up, eyes adjusting to the pool of darkness, stars flickering into existence. He’d never really seen stars until that night in Texas on the way down here - had always thought staring up at the sky was pointless, kinda lame. But the way the sky stretches out in front of him, how the stars appear like someone slowly turning on the lights - there’s something peaceful, something kinda cool about that. So, he gets it now, understands the appeal. Being locked in a six by eight foot cell for a year will do that to a person.

“Never saw any where I’m from,” he says, wiping the beer from his lips. He shifts on the hood of the car, rests his weight on one hand, forces himself to relax a little.

“Really?”

He shrugs, finishes off his cigarette. “Fucking big city, man. Light pollution. All that shit. Then I was-,” he stops himself, catches his words in his throat. _Then I was in the joint for a year_. “Then I came down here.”

“Well, this is the best place in the city to see the stars,” Raúl says, rubs his hand gently over the small of Mickey’s back and Mickey shivers, goosebumps. “I like to come here sometimes and think.”

“Yeah?” Mickey huffs a laugh, smirking. His mind goes blank as he looks at Raúl, his shirt stretched tight across his chest, the sliver of skin where it unbuttons, that padlock chain he always wears resting against his skin. “You bring all the boys here then?”

“No, Mickey,” Raúl says, laughing behind his eyes, smiling that half-smile of his, and he reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from in front of Mickey’s eyes, “only the pretty ones.” 

“Fuck.” Mickey exhales sharply, looks down at Raúl, eyes darting between his chest and those beautiful lips and the she spattering of freckles over his nose and cheeks. Raúl’s rests his arm around Mickey’s shoulder, fingers against the side of his neck and Mickey sighs as Raúl’s fingers start moving, just slightly. Thumb and fingers and knuckles all rubbing the skin of Mickey’s neck, his jaw, his earlobe - casual as shit, but still so fucking intimate and Mickey just can’t make eye contact, can’t stare into that sun. He leans into Raúl’s touch but closes his eyes - it feels safer that way, less intense. Mickey bites down on his bottom lip and turns his beer bottle around in his hand absently, unable to focus on anything but the soft, slow movement of Raúl’s fingers and the throbbing in his chest that feels like it could kill him and somehow set him to life at the same time. He thought he had a handle on this thing between them, figured since things hadn’t progressed past fucking and falling asleep on the couch together for a few weeks, that he was in control. But somehow, when he least expected it, he’s ended up right in the fucking middle of the exact situation he’s been trying to avoid; a fucking date, or something like it. And shit, he loves and hates it at the same time, feels like he’s been split right down the middle; the walls around his heart crumbling and rebuilding themselves at exactly the same time.

Raúl finishes off his beer, throws the bottle into the carton with the other empties and he stretches, lays down on the blanket. Mickey exhales slowly, feels the loss of Raúl’s warm skin against his own, but relaxes, finishes off his cigarette. He steals a glance at Raúl from the corner of his eye - laying back on the hood, all long fucking giraffe limbs, sexy as hell, as if he does this stuff like this every other day. Who knows - maybe he fucking does.

“Here,” Raúl pats the blanket next to him and Mickey’s breath hitches in his throat. 

This _is_ a date. This is _definitely_ a fucking date. 

Mickey hesitates for a second, but his heart is pounding sweetly in his chest and he gives in, just gives himself over to that pull, the need to feel Raúl’s body against his own again. Fuck it. “It is alright up here,” Mickey says as he lays back, smirks as he feels Raúl shift closer to him, “kinda fucking nice, I guess.”

Raúl hums. “Kinda fucking nice,” he repeats absently, distracted. Mickey looks at him, watches him idly playing with his hair, face relaxed, dreamy. He knows that look on Raúl’s face; it’s the look that says he’s thinking about something else, that his mind has moved on from the stars and the sky, while Mickey was still playing catch up.

“What was it like?” Raúl says, rolling onto his side, facing Mickey, “Growing up in the United States?”

Mickey snorts, tenses a little. He wasn’t expecting that. “Fuck, I dunno,” he says, shrugging, shaking his head. “It was.. I mean, what part?”

“You know..” Raúl says, sliding a hand underneath Mickey’s shirt, fingers resting on his hip, “growing up like we are. Gay.”

Mickey sighs, closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as Raúl’s words settle waiting in the space between them. He’s never talked about this to anyone before, hasn’t a fucking clue how to begin to explain. “It wasn’t real fucking pleasant, ay.” 

“Mierda,” _shit_ , Raúl says _._ He shifts closer, fingers rubbing over Mickey’s hip bone; soft, light touches but just enough to electrify Mickey’s skin, for the heat to rise in his cheeks. “Estás bien?” _Are you okay?_

Mickey nods. He’s fine, barely thinks about that shit anymore - hasn’t needed to. No one he’s met since ever cared enough to ask him and he hadn’t expected that to change anytime soon. But Raúl’s fingers drawing circles on Mickey’s hip and stomach, the look on Raúl’s face, in his eyes, says he definitely gives a shit. “It’s fine, aight,” Mickey sighs, rubs his hand across his forehead, takes a deep breath before laying it all out on the table. “My old man was a violent fucking homophobe. But I lived to talk about it, so..”

Raúl exhales sharply, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, leaning his head against Mickey’s shoulder. “Que cabrón!” _What a bastard,_ he mumbles against Mickey’s tshirt. “I’m sorry, Mickey.”

Mickey swallows heavily, cracks the knuckles on his FUCK hand. “Ay, don’t worry about it. It happened,” he says, shrugging. “Just the fucking world I grew up in, man. What about you?”

“I lived in a small town, and sometimes there were comments. But nothing like you.. nothing very bad,” he slides his fingers over Mickey’s ribcage, pulling him towards him _._ “My abuela is very accepting. I’m lucky.”

Mickey nods, scrapes his teeth inside his cheek, tries to think of something to say because he’s not used to serious conversations - hell, they usually piss him off and he does his fucking best to avoid them. But what really surprises Mickey is the fact he’s not even remotely annoyed by the questions, has no desire to tell Raúl to shut the fuck up _._ It’s actually kinda.. _nice_ to talk about this shit with someone - with Raúl. “You lived with her, huh?” he says, facing Raúl, blue eyes searching brown, “your abuela?”

Raúl hums quietly, nods. “My sister and I, yeah,” he says, and that sparkle - that life behind his eyes that Mickey first noticed months ago - it fades a little, dulls. “Our madre died when I was six years old. Padre is in prison since around the same time. Maybe he’s dead now. We don’t know.”

“Holy fuck,” the words fall uselessly from Mickey’s mouth and his heart throbs its painful sweet ache in his chest. _Madre died, padre is in prison_. He chews on his lip, his mind swimming anxiously with thoughts.

“We lived with abuela since I was eight.” Raúl continues, but Mickey barely hears him because he’s thinking about his parents, the day his own mother died, how things could have been different for both him and Raúl. His hand moves to Raúl’s face, and Mickey looks at him, searching for that goddamn spark in his eyes but instead he sees the pages of the story behind this confident, six-foot smartass. And shit - maybe he sees a bit of himself too; a flash of what might have been his life if someone had given a fuck about him and his siblings when he was six.

“I get it, man,” he says, low and quiet, Raúl’s arm curling around him, pulling him closer. Mickey doesn’t resist, presses himself against Raúl instead, because something inside him feels different all of a sudden, changed. One row of bricks after another fall from the walls around his heart, but this time he lets them fall, doesn’t work to rebuild them. “Same sorta shit in my family. Ma’s dead, dad’s in the can - just no relatives that gave a fuck.”

Raúl smiles that half-smile, presses their foreheads together, warm breath closing the space between them. “We are not so different, you and I.”

A shiver travels up Mickey’s spine and he catches his breath. _We are not so different, you and I._ Holy fucking shit. He doesn’t know why but that really does it for him; Raúl’s words hit him in the heart, or the dick - he doesn’t even know anymore. He closes his eyes, exhaling slow, hands travelling under Raúl’s tshirt, over his skin and he imagines those tattoos like a map underneath his fingertips.

Raúl grabs at Mickey’s ass through his jeans, forcing their hips together, slow grinding, breathing heavy against Mickey’s mouth. Their lips are so close Mickey can almost taste the beer on Raúl’s skin, and then Raúl licks his lips, those pretty fucking lips, and Mickey feels the soft, wet touch of Raúl’s tongue against his mouth. One quick gentle lick, fucking teasing him - daring him. Mickey’s mouth drops open, desire and instinct, because he wants that tongue in his mouth so fucking badly, wants Raúl to fuck his goddamn mouth with that tongue - fucking claim it. Jesus fucking christ it’s almost all he can think about. A breathy moan rises in his throat, his own tongue sitting heavy and wasted in his mouth. He wants to kiss, needs to even. But fuck, now his walls are down he needs time to think - time to work out what he really wants - with his head instead of his dick. Just a little more time, that’s all he needs. He turns his head, presses his lips against Raúl’s neck, teeth sinking in, marking him. 

Raúl’s hips roll against Mickey’s, thrusting slow and rhythmic and Raúl moans lowly, throat and neck buzzing against Mickey’s lips. His hips respond and he sucks at Raúl again, over and over, ruining that soft, olive flesh - making it his. Raúl fumbles at Mickey’s jeans, his ass, and then his pants are off and his dick slaps against his stomach as it’s released. Raúl wraps his fingers around it, flicks his thumb over the tip and Mickey hisses, bites down on his lip. He’s so goddamn hard, wet and leaking, aching for Raúl inside him in some way. _Any_ way. Who the fuck even cares. 

“I didn’t bring anything,” Mickey breathes lamely, but he makes no effort to stop - he can’t, doesn’t want to. He tugs at Raúl’s jeans, removing them, hand wrapping around that hard, warm dick of his, working at it, his mouth watering. Oh fuck, it’s big and beautiful and it makes him drool without even seeing it. 

Raúl whines lowly, breath falling from his mouth in short, desperate gasps. “Don’t worry. I.. I.. planned on fucking you, Mickey,” he rasps and he pauses for a beat, just a second, and then moves his hand from Mickey’s cock. Mickey curses at the loss and their eyes lock together, and a second later Raúl’s wet fingers are at Mickey’s mouth, spreading pre-come over his lips and Mickey’s tongue darts out, hungry. He licks at salty fingers, lips parting, taking them in his mouth and Raúl fucks his mouth over and over.

“You should see yourself,” Raúl growls, pauses for a beat, eyes on Mickey, “you’re a mess, muy hermoso, fuck.”

Mickey whines against Raúl’s fingers, feel the spit and drool around his mouth and chin, the warm, the gentle breeze turning his wet, messy mouth cool. Raúl removes his wet fingers and grabs at handfulls of Mickey’s ass, muttering in Spanish and English, fucking praising it. He slides in his fingers - holy shit, that’s two at once - and it’s fucking effortless because Raúl fucks him so often and so well that Mickey is always ready for him now, always stretched and waiting. Then there’s another finger inside him - three fingers, easing in and out, - sweet, beautiful friction, and fuck - Raúl hits that spot inside of him, electrifying him. Mickey keens, rolling his hips, ass chasing those long fingers, needing to be filled and fucked and taken. There are words escaping his lips, English words that sound foreign to his own ears; desperate, needy and hungry. _Fuck me, fuck me please, I need it, please, fuck me_ , over and over, and yeah - he’s fucking begging for Raúl’s cock and he couldn’t give a single shit.

He winces as Raúl eases his fingers from him, shivers at the friction and the burn, the way that ring of muscle spasms, contracts and fucking aches from the loss. They look at each other, both of them panting, heavy breaths mingling between them and that look in Raúl’s eyes, wild, like he’s fucking possessed - shit, it’s too much. Raúl puts his hands on Mickey’s cheeks, pushes their foreheads together again and it’s so fucking intense Mickey thinks he should look away. He doesn’t.

“You’re beautiful,” Raúl says, pausing for a beat, then pulls at Mickey’s tshirt, lifting it over his chest. Mickey huffs a breath, surprised, overwhelmed. He’s naked and Raúl is staring at him, fingers running over his chest, his hips, everywhere, while Raúl strokes at his own dick. Mickey licks his bottom lip, watches Raúl’s hand and fingers working that beautiful cock of his and then he pulls Raúl’s tshirt over his head. He palms at Raúl’s abs, his chest, nipples brushing past his fingertips, his dick pulsing relentlessly, leaking. This guy is incredible. Goddamn incredible. How the fuck is this is life? 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, just turns his back to Raúl and he responds; envelopes Mickey, chest pressed against his back, slotting their legs together, fingers running past his cleft, between his ass cheeks. Mickey hears the crackle of the condom the slick of lube against Raúl’s erection, and the quiet breathy sounds of desire and anticipation the only sounds breaking through the silence of the night. Jesus christ, it sounds so fucking hot. Mickey shudders, closes his eyes, waiting for that beautiful stretch, craving it - and shit, there it is. Raúl pulls apart Mickey’s cheeks and pushes inside, just the tip, slow constant pressure. That sweet, dull burn. Mickey hisses, exhales a long low breath and Raúl mutters words in Spanish against his neck. 

“M’good,” Mickey moans and he pushes back, fleshy cheeks chasing Raúl’s dick. Raúl pushes in further - hesitates - further still, and Mickey thrusts and keens as Raúl fills him fucking beautifully, bottoms out. 

“Fuck… ay beuno, ajestado,” Raúl mutters, and Mickey hasn’t a clue what he’s saying, doesn’t care because Raúl has already slid almost all the way out of him. He’s holding his dick at the entrance, teasing that ring of muscle and Mickey is whining and panting and shaking because he feels so empty suddenly.

“Please,” Mickey whines, shakily, “please,” and Raúl sinks his teeth into his neck, sucking at him, biting as he pushes back into him, hard and deep. Raúl rolls his hips against his cheeks, fucking him slow and long, burying himself deeper inside him. Mickey is panting, hot ragged breaths, whining and cursing as he meets Raúl’s thrusts, feeling so full, so fucking stretched and warm and complete; his ass swallowing Raúl’s dick so fucking easily with each roll of their hips. And shit- Mickey can’t remember the last time he was fucked like this; so slow and deliberate and intense, like he’s the centre of the goddamn universe. Raúl’s fingers caress his chest and hips, lips pressed against his shoulders, and those sexy Spanish words fill Mickey’s ears because this guy can never stop babbling. It’s just them now, Mickey and Raúl in the dark, the silence of the night, nothing to be heard but the sounds of their needy, rasping grunts and the hot, slick sounds of Raúl sliding in and out of him. And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful sound in the world.

“You like it.. like it slow like this?” Raúl whines, shifting the angle, hitting that spot inside Mickey - that beautiful, electric spot that he seems to know like the back of his hand. Holy shit, Mickey is lightning in a bottle; alive and on fire and fucking shaking. He’s overwhelmed, heart aching sweetly in his chest, a pleasant sting of emotion bubbling in his throat. It’s so fucking long since he’s felt like this and he can’t speak, can’t think, so instead he moans and grunts and maybe he nods. 

Raúl hits that spot again and Mickey groans, reaches back, his hand on Raúl’s ass cheeks, hungry fingers against sweaty skin. They’re both burning hot, trembling, their bodies moving together like hot, smooth caramel, and Mickey can no longer tell where he ends and Raúl begins. They’re one now, a searing, beautiful mess of sex and emotion; skin sticky with sweat and friction, bodies humming with the sweet ache of being filled and fucked and made whole in every fucking way.

“Muy bueno,” Raúl murmurs and he rolls his hips deeper, slower, longer, “You are so good, you feel so good.” And there are words leaving Mickey’s mouth too but his mind is blank, because he’s getting closer and closer, ripples of pleasure building up inside him from his toes to his fingertips, slowly taking him over. 

“You know how to fuck me,” Mickey hears the words, hears his own voice, disembodied and floaty, because he’s too far gone, too fucked out to control himself or worry about how that sounded. Raúl gasps behind him, breath upon Mickey’s neck, humming and murmuring and rasping with every roll of hips, every wave their bodies make together. He babbles in Spanish again, those flowery fucking words falling from his lips. _Incrieble, perfecto, muy hermoso._

Mickey is shaking and whimpering against Raúl and part of him longs to watch Raúl’s face as they fuck, to share in that intimacy. But he’s not ready for that closeness and he can’t stop because he’s almost there; his orgasm right _there_ \- right _fucking_ there. “I’m… I’m.. m’gonna..” he struggles to speak, too consumed by the feeling of being so wholly fucked. Raúl quickens slightly, fucking at Mickey in short, sharp thrusts, stabbing that spot inside him, moaning and whining and babbling. Words fall from Mickey’s mouth again, a steady stream of begging and pleading; _finish me, please, please Raúl, fucking finish me, I need you to._

There’s a hand around Mickey’s dick, Raúl’s fingers stroking at him, and the hot, wet sound of friction; his leaking dick against Raúl’s palm. Mickey keens, exhales a low shaky moan from somewhere deep in his gut and Raúl fucks at him harder and faster, cursing in Spanish and English. 

“Fuck,” Mickey groans, low and loud like a fucking animal as his hips take over, and he fucks himself on Raúl’s hand. “Jesus, fuck. Raúl-.” Behind him, Raúl bucks hard and fast, chasing his own orgasm deeper and deeper inside Mickey and he spreads the wetness all over Mickey’s dick as he topples over the edge. Mickey whimpers desperately, again and again pleasure radiating over him in warm, sweet bursts and Raúl follows him over the cliff, whining and panting behind him.

Holy fucking shit.

They slump together against the hood of the car, breaths heavy and ragged, skin fused with sweat as they come down from their high. Raúl’s wraps an arm around Mickey’s torso, fingers stroking lightly against his stomach, lips against his shoulder, humming quietly. Mickey shivers, his heart throbbing pleasantly in his chest and feels vulnerable, exposed suddenly - least of all because he’s fucking naked. He grabs at the blanket and pulls it over them. But the blanket does nothing to quash the feeling that he’s been exposed, laid bare right here on the hood of this guy’s car; feelings swirling and swelling inside him that he can’t think too much about, doesn’t want to put a name to.

“Fuck, tú y yo, Mickey,” _you and me,_ Raúl says, voice muffled against his neck, his hand travelling down to rest against Mickey’s, “fucking incredible.”

Mickey bites his lip, nods quickly, nervously. It’s all too much again; the sex, the emotions, Raúl’s hand on his hand. “Got a fetish for fucking outside, huh?” he says lowly, trying to take back some of the intimacy, balance the scales.

Raúl chuckles loudly, bites down on Mickey’s shoulder, playful. “I also like to do it in a bed,” he breathes into Mickey’s ear.

Mickey huffs, surprised, taken aback. His stomach twists in that annoyingly pleasant way, a bubble rising in his chest, and he laughs. Actually fucking laughs, loud and hard, doesn’t hold back.

What a fucking smartass.

* * *

Raúl shifts on Mickey’s couch, stretching his back, wincing quietly as his neck cracks. The shower he just had hasn’t helped at all; he’s stiff and sore after another night spent stretched out on Mickey’s couch, the two of them pressed against each other, awkwardly sharing the narrow cushions. If he could prise himself away from Mickey’s company, he’d go back home at night, sleep in his own bed - maybe let Mickey miss his body next to his. But as it happens, Raúl has no willpower when it comes to Mickey; the game they’re playing is too much fun. Every inch that brings Raúl closer to Mickey is exhilarating, intoxicating - like a drug - and Raúl keeps tightening the strings, adjusting the key, wanting more and more after each hit.

Mickey is in the shower and Raúl can’t help but think about him wet and naked and beautiful. He chuckles, thinks about last night at the lookout. A shiver travels over his skin, and he bites down on his lip, stifling the grin aching to spread across his face. His heart beats heavy in his chest, because he knows the lookout was different than all the other times they’ve fucked; it was more intimate, emotional. Sweeter. And he knows that Mickey felt it too; could see it in his eyes and feel it in the way he moved. Raúl is damn sure of it. 

A drop of water travels from his wet hair, plopping loudly on the fretboard of his guitar and he quickly wipes it off, returns to strumming idly at the instrument as he thinks about his next move. The lookout had been about as close to a date as he could lead Mickey without spooking him and Raúl feels pretty sure it worked. Mickey had opened up a little, told him things about his family, and they’d fucked over and over, slow and rhythmic, like waves rolling in to the shore.

But they still haven’t kissed and it’s frustrating. So very frustrating. Raúl can tell that kissing is a big deal to Mickey, that it really means something. So he’s sure it’s only a matter of time before they kiss and once he does, Mickey will be falling right alongside him, no going back. Raúl continues strumming his guitar, growing louder and more purposeful with each stroke of his hand, until he’s jamming, experimenting with a new chord progression right in Mickey’s living room, music focussing his thoughts like it always does. 

He’s so lost in his own head - in the music and the memories of the night before - that at first he doesn’t notice Mickey standing in the doorway, watching him, listening. Mickey shifts his weight slightly and Raúl can see him from the corner of his eye; blue eyes darting between Raúl’s face and his fingers, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, thinking. Raúl continues to play, starts humming a melody. It’s a good one - simple, catchy - but shit, he’s going to have to go back home and record it, do something with it, or he’ll lose it forever and he hates that.

“You just make that shit up or what?” Mickey says from the doorway, gestures towards Raúl’s guitar.

Raúl startles slightly, nods. “Si,” he says, giving his guitar one quick, final strum, “it just came to me.”

Mickey folds his arms over his chest, huffs quietly, impressed. “Fuck, man,” he says, eyebrows raised, cheeks turning pink, “that’s… that’s real fucking cool, ay.” 

Raúl chuckles, shrugs, heat pooling in his own cheeks because Mickey isn’t the kind of guy who throws around compliments unless he really means them. Then he laughs a little, because of course - Mickey isn’t someone who says or does _anything_ without a reason. 

“Oh, he’s modest all of a fucking sudden,” Mickey chuckles, grabs his tshirt from the couch, hand brushing across Raúl’s hips as he passes him.

Raúl shivers at the contact, freezes for a second. Okay. That happened - that casual affection from Mickey _definitely_ happened. And suddenly he regrets ever coming up with that damn melody, because he really has to go back home. “Hey, I gotta go,” he says, packing his guitar back in its case, “I need to record this song before I.. before I lose it.”

Mickey pulls his t-shirt on over his head, pauses. “Aight,” he shrugs, chuckles quietly, “I gotta work in a couple of hours, anyways. Fucking day shift.”

Raúl nods, finishes packing his guitar away, pulls on his boots. He’s thinking about last night again; the sex and the intimacy and that warm, sweet feeling of being that close to someone again finally, after all this time. He’d love to do it all again tonight, and the next night, and the night after that. But Mickey has to work and there’s a melody rolling around in his head that will haunt him for the rest of his life if he lets it float away.

Mickey is leaning against the wall next to the the front door, smoking a cigarette by the time Raúl is ready to leave. They look at each other; eye contact, blue against green, as he moves towards the door, stopping inches away from Mickey. Raúl licks his lips, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, teasing, and he watches as Mickey exhales quickly and looks away. 

Raúl smirks, loves the effect he has on him. “I enjoyed last night,” he says, laughing a little, and he watches Mickey’s eyes as they dart all over his face, nervous, skittish.

Mickey nods, cheeks turning pink again. “Yeah,” he says, clears his throat a little, “yeah it was cool. Nice view and all that.”

 _Nice view_. Raúl runs a hand through his hair, swallows the laugh that tickles him in his chest, nods slowly. He searches his brain for his next move, an idea, something to lead Mickey back to him again after he leaves. He’s wondering if maybe he should just lean in and kiss him - see what actually happens. A second later and Raúl knows what he’s going to do. He places a hand on Mickey’s jaw, the side of his neck and he leans towards him, holds eye contact.

“Me gustas,” he murmurs into Mickey’s ear, lips brushing against his earlobe, and he feels Mickey’s body stiffen next to him, hears his breath hovering in his throat.

“What the?” Mickey snorts, surprised. “Me what-us?”

Raúl pulls back, takes in the frustrated look on Mickey’s face; all furrowed eyebrows and curled lips, and he tries not to laugh at how easy Mickey is to rile. Raúl leans back in, pauses for a second. 

“Google it,” he says, lips against Mickey’s wet hair, and then he picks up his guitar, opens the front door and leaves without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Raúl on their date:
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> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)
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> Me gustas means "you are pleasing to me" and is a bit like saying "I like you" in English but more intense / serious - or so I have heard. Either way, in the next chapter we will see how Mickey reacts to Raúl's words in his ear.
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> My beautiful friend [Jewel](https://twitter.com/jewelisgayasf) made this [Trailblazer trailer!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IA_6OGszKfg)


	10. Nice to Meet You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Mickey's move.
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“Thanks for coming,” Raúl smiles and he hands his CD to the pretty girl standing on the other side of his merch table. She thanks him, walks away, and Raúl folds up her pesos , slides them into the pocket of his jeans. He looks out over the bar and counts another ten people - maybe twelve - in the line waiting for CDs and autographs or just to talk. It was a great show tonight, a great crowd; some familiar faces, fans who knew the lyrics, others who didn’t, but stayed for the entire show regardless. Tonight he’d even played the song he started working on at Mickey’s house. He really couldn’t have asked for a better night; it was almost perfect. Almost.

Raúl inhales deeply, swallows the sick feeling aching in his stomach. He runs a his hand through his hair and smiles again, repeats the script; _Hola, having a good night? What’s your name? Nice to meet you, thanks so much for coming_. His fans are smiling as they walk away, just happy to have made a connection to the music, the lyrics or to Raúl himself. And he feels like an asshole, the way he’s running on autopilot, putting on a performance even now, with his fans - the people who paid money to hear his music. But there is a sadness slowly wrapping its tendrils around his ankles, creeping up his legs, and when he feels like this, the script is a distraction from the urge to escape, take some time out, jump into his car and drive.

The box of CDs he brought with him tonight is almost empty and Raúl has posed for his last fan selfie and finished up a long conversation about his gear with a tall, gringo hipster. He breathes a sigh of relief, continues packing up his amps - glad it’s over. Any other night, he’d be happy to talk guitars and pedals and power rigs for hours, but right now - Raúl can practically taste the joint he’ll be smoking as soon as he gets home, almost feel the way it will turn his mind to cotton wool, numbing the thoughts he wants to escape, as he loses himself in a maze of new ones.

With a guitar case in each hand, he makes his way towards the exit, the first of three trips back out to his car. He turns around, but stops short, rocking backwards on his heels because the hipster is standing in his way, eyes raking over him, giving him _that look._ His stomach sinks because he knows what’s about to happen, and for some reason he doesn’t even feel flattered, just feels a little sick instead. Not tonight. Maybe a month from now, when he’ll have his head sorted out again - but _not tonight._

“Hola,” the hipster says, and Raúl sets a guitar case on the floor, rests against it, creating a barrier. “Do you wanna go out? Grab a drink?”

The words hang in the air between them and Raúl feels his face tightening, his bottom lip sliding between his teeth - a grimace. He runs a hand over his forehead, through his hair, choosing his words. No, he doesn’t want to go out, but even forcing himself to entertain the idea feels wrong - like cheating. And then he huffs quietly, annoyed at himself, because it really wouldn’t be cheating when there’s no one for him to be cheating on.

“Lo siento, amigo,” Raúl says, and he swallows, forces the words from his lips, “there’s someone waiting at home for me.” The guy nods, shrugs a little and backs off, but Raúl barely notices him because his words sting painfully, like bile in his throat. 

_There’s someone waiting at home for me._

It’s a lie. Mickey is gone. Not _gone_ in the literal sense of the word, but gone from Raúl’s life at least. After all the time they spent together, laughing, talking and getting closer, or so Raúl had thought, it had all ended with two words. Two stupid words. _Me gustas._ And now Mickey is silent, invisible - just someone Raúl used to hang out with; a memory lingering under his fingertips, a number in his phone that never calls.

Raúl sighs, teeth scraping against his bottom lip and he resolves to put Mickey out of his mind, out of his thoughts until he’s home. He picks up his guitars and heads out of the bar to his car, humming a tune, joining the dots with feelings and lyrics and ideas, as he walks. 

* * *

Alejandra is sitting in the dark, watching a movie when Raúl arrives home, and he sets his gear down near the door with a thud.

“Hola,” Alejandra says absently, gaze fixed firmly on the tv, “how did you go tonight?”

Raúl toes off his boots, kicks them across the living room floor, lazy. He sinks down into the couch, rests his head back and hums in frustration, lets the cushions swallow him up. It feels good to be home, even if he’d rather be with Mickey. “Bueno,” he says, feet finding their way to the coffee table. 

Alejandra pauses, tears her gaze from the tv. “Bueno?” she repeats, curious, and Raúl can feel her staring through the dark, her sceptical eyes studying him, waiting for more than a one word answer.

He hums quietly and closes his eyes, disappearing inside his own head and his chest tightens because all he can see behind his lids is Mickey. Mickey’s eyes, his lips and the way he smiles and laughs in spite of himself. Shit. Raúl needs a change of scenery; time to think and sort through the mess inside his head. He just needs to make it through the next couple of gigs and then he’ll head out to the desert for a week or so. The isolation and the quiet always somehow manages remove the sting from his wounds, letting him reorientate himself. He’s been focussed on little else besides _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_ for months now - he needs to take a step back, get some perspective. _Get a fucking grip, as_ Mickey would say. Raúl rolls his eyes behind his lids, almost laughs. He’s proven his own point.

“I think I’m going to get out of town for a few days,” he says, biting down on his lip, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. “A road trip.”

Alejandra mutes the tv, shifts on the couch towards him. “Raúl..” Her voice is soft, but there’s that look in her eyes that he knows so well; intense, concerned, searching his own for answers. She’s thinking of all the times in the last three years, especially right after everything had happened with Diego, when he’d struggled, just had to get away from it all.

Raúl shakes his head quickly, lights his cigarette and inhales. “I’m okay, ALeja” he says finally, through a long stream of smoke, “I’m fine.”

Alejandra huffs a sarcastic laugh, shakes her head slowly. “A road trip never means _I’m fine,_ with you,” she says, leaning forward, fingers wrapping around Raúl’s free hand. “Did you fight with your boyfriend?”

Raúl’s lips curl into a smirk and he blinks slowly, exhaling a sharp, short breath. _Boyfriend._ That fucking word. It would almost be easier if they had been boyfriends, if they’d been together officially and argued, actually broken up - his feelings would be worth something. It’s embarrassing, being upset over someone who was obviously nothing more than a fuck buddy. It’s a cliche.

“He’s not my boyfriend,“ he says lowly, the truth wrapping around his heart, squeezing it like a fist, painful. _He was never my boyfriend._

Alejandra moves to sit next to Raúl, curls herself around him. “Tell me Raúl, please,” she says, “What happened?”

He laughs wryly, rests his head on her shoulder. ”I told him.. that I really like him,” Raúl says, his voice hollow, “I thought he felt the same way.. I felt it.. but that was weeks ago and I didn’t hear from him.” He shudders, hates hearing himself say the words because it feels so completely real now, like he’s conjured a bad dream into existence. “Then I invited him to my show and he texted one word; busy.”

“Oh, Raúl,” she says, an arm wrapping around his waist, snuggling against him. “I’m angry if he’s ignoring you, but maybe he really is busy, or unwell? Maybe there’s some other explanation?”

Raúl shrugs, snorts a little. _Some other explanation._ He understands her optimism, because he felt optimistic too for the first few days. He’d thought of all the reasons why Mickey couldn't pick up his phone and just send a message, almost managed to convince himself. But then a few days turned into a week, and a week into two andnow _me gustas_ feels like _adios_. 

“Yeah, maybe that’s it,” Raúl says finally, but his words are a lie, hollow and artificial, a platitude, because he doesn’t believe them anymore, not for a second. And then he realises, for the first time in the months since they’ve known each other, Mickey’s actions are sending a clear message, unmistakeable this time; whatever they had, or almost had, it’s finished.

* * *

“You motherfucker!” Mickey screams, spitting his words, wincing as the pain radiates from his shin, “you stupid fucker!”

The goat stares back at Mickey, beady eyes unblinking and unsympathetic, blissfully and dumbly unaware of the pain he just issued to his owner’s leg. He bleats, then continues chewing at the rope, stubborn and defiant, or just plain fucking stupid - Mickey really isn’t sure.

Mickey yanks the rope its mouth for the second time. “Don’t eat the rope, you fucking idiot! Eat the goddamn food!” He watches, disbelieving, as the goat - his goat - sniffs at the bucket of vegetable scraps in front of him, then walks away, deciding instead to stare aimlessly at the fence.

Mickey examines the rope, and rolls his eyes, because Raúl had been right - the rope is frayed and gnawed in ten different places, and yeah, this goat is going to escape if he doesn’t secure him with a chain. Goddamn Raúl. If it hadn’t been for him and his interfering and his love of goddamn animals, Mickey would have told the bruja exactly what she could do with her goat. Now he has a living, breathing reminder of the guy in goat form, that he has to feed and water and keep alive.

He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Of course it’s not just the goat, because Mickey can still smell Raúl on his clothes and the couch, and he can feel the loss of him on his chest when he falls asleep in front of the tv. _Fuck._ Everything is a reminder of that fucking beautiful six foot Mexican _Everything._

_Me gustas._

Mickey shivers, can almost still feel Raúl’s breath hot against his ear, tickling his hair as he’d said those words. Mickey had googled the phrase as soon has Raúl had closed the front door behind him. Then he’d sat staring at his laptop, at the words, examining each letter, a cold sweat beading on his skin and his heart beating hard and fast in his chest, until the words didn’t look like words anymore, and Mickey had to go to work. 

_I like you,_ that’s what Raúl had said _._

He’d thought about the words everytime he’d picked up his phone to text Raúl, to invite him over, and he’d heard them in his ear each time he’d put his phone back in his pocket instead. The last few weeks have been goddamn miserable without Raúl, fucking shitty. Boring too, and he’s felt fucking weird, as if a piece of him is missing. Still, he hadn’t been able to hit send, or go to Raúl’s show. He hasn’t been able to climb past that last piece of wall.

“Hola, Mickey!” Sofia’s voice comes wafting from the alleyway between their houses. “Who’s the motherfucker?”

Mickey sits down on his back steps, lights up the joint he’d come outside to smoke before that stupid goat had tried to kick his ass. “None of your damn business,” he mutters around the joint, chuckles as Sofia sits down next to him on the step as if she owns the place. “The goat. Fucker attacked me. He’s got a fucking good kick on him.”

“Ahhh, cabron travieso,” _naughty goat,_ she says, taking the joint as Mickey passes it to her, “but he needs a name, Mickey. We cannot keep calling him _the goat._ ” 

Mickey chuckles and they sit in silence, passing the joint back and forth between them. “Seagal,” he says finally, laughing, because yeah, he’s kinda high right now, but shit, if that isn’t the best damn name he’s ever heard. “His name is Seagal.”

“You’re a motherfucker, Seagal,” Sofia yells across the yard, and Seagal casts a beady look back in her direction, “Thought maybe Raúl was the motherfucker. You have a pelea de pareja? A lover’s quarrel? I haven’t seen him around.”

Mickey groans, shakes his head slowly. Fucking nosy bitch. “Some shit went down, I guess. Whatever,” he shrugs, exhales another stream of smoke. “Is that all you do all day? Fucking spy on me?”

Sofia laughs, unphased, “Yes, Mickey. You are the centre of my universe,” she says, deadpan and sarcastic, “So, you broke up?” 

Mickey’s stomach sinks, heavy and leaden. Is this a breakup? God knows he’s felt shitty enough without the guy. “No. I mean, I don’t know. We were never…” _we were never together,_ he wants to say but his thoughts are fading, becoming cloudy, distant. “It’s complicated.” 

“I study engineering at universidad, Mickey. I can handle complicated.”

He groans, scrubs his hand over his face in frustration. “Raúl said something, aight. He said, _me gustas_ ,” the words spill from his mouth from some deep part of his brain still able to think and he’s surprised, can’t believe that he’s actually talking about this shit. He passes the remainder of the joint to Sofia. “Well, I wanted time to think and whatever the fuck. So I ain’t said nothin’ to him since.”

“ _Me gustas,_ means he likes you very much, he wants to be with you.. “ Sofia says, exhaling slowly, knocking a knee against his, “it is a big thing to say in Spanish, Mickey.”

Mickey bits down on his lip, the heaviness starts moving, curdling and aching, feeling like guilt. 

“And you ignored him, Mickey!” she exclaims, fist connecting with Mickey’s shoulder, but he doesn’t answer - just turns his head and looks away instead. “So, what is going on? Do you want to be with him?

Mickey sighs, scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip. “Yes, I fucking.. I wanna be with him, or whatever,” he snaps back, and then he pauses, blinking, because the truth has just tumbled from his lips for the first time, and he feels fucking relieved. Just pure, blissful, sweet relief. He laughs a little, then catches his breath, tries to hold onto that feeling. But he’s high and his thoughts are everywhere and suddenly he’s thinking about Ian, and how it all ended with them, in the worst possible way, over and over. “It’ll only end badly,’ he mutters, cracking his knuckles, “everything always turns to shit.”

“That is.. how do you say it? A bullshit excuse, Mickey!” Sofia laughs loudly, sarcastic. “Maybe things won’t go to shit and it will all be worth it. You both like each other, yes? Half the battle is already won.”

Mickey huffs quietly, looks at Sofia, with those big, brown eyes of hers, all doe-like and innocent, just sitting there completely fucking oblivious to the fact she’s calling a fugitive - an attempted murderer, depending on who you ask - on his shit. Hell, she’d probably still do it even if she did know about his past. Fucking ballsy bitch. He doesn’t say anything, just lets her words sink in; _half the battle is already won._

“Where is Raúl now?”

Mickey shrugs, picks absently at a hole in his jeans. “Got a show, I guess,” he sighs, bites down on his bottom lip, thinking. 

Sofia hums, nodding slowly. “When Raúl said how he feels, he didn’t want to be ignored, Mickey,” she says, resting an arm around Mickey’s shoulders. “Nobody does.”

He freezes, awkward under the weight of Sofia’s affection and her words. _He didn’t want to be ignored._ Shit. The tight, stinging feeling rises in his throat again, and he feels sick, because he knows exactly what it feels like to be ignored - he got to know that feeling all too fucking well while he was in the joint. Raúl doesn’t deserve that shit. 

_Nobody does._

Suddenly, he’s on his feet, ignoring the sickness in his stomach. “I gotta go,” he says, running a hand through his hair, gnawing on his bottom lip as his mind swims with plans. He looks down at his clothes; ripped jeans and tank top. Shit, he needs to change. 

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” 

* * *

Mickey’s eyebrows knot into a frown as he moves his arm, peels his skin from the sticky surface of the bar. This place is fucking gross. He finally found Raúl playing in a shitty area of the city at a shitty bar, and it pisses Mickey off if he's honest - because the guy is too good, too talented to slum it in Mexico’s version of The Alibi. Raúl is singing in Spanish this time, a song that sounds like the one he started writing at Mickey’s house, but the magic is lost under the low, constant hum of people talking over the top of him. Rude fucking assholes.

Raúl hasn't seen him yet, but Mickey hasn't taken his eyes off the guy the entire time he’s been here. The way Raúl stands there lost in the music, swaying his hips, throwing his hair of his back at all the right times - well it's sexy as fuck and Mickey can’t look away. 

Raúl pauses for a second, silence, before the song changes, launches into what sounds like a chorus. It's definitely the song he played at Mickey’s house, and he feels that swelling in his chest, a burning on his cheeks. Pride.

There's a scraping of chairs across the bar and someone yells out “Joto!” _Faggot_. Mickey knows that word, and he's on his feet immediately, launching himself across the room towards the sound of the voice, at the same time another voice yells the abuse in English and a glass flies through the air, landing squarely against Raúl's face. 

“Leave him the fuck alone!” Mickey screams and he changes direction, lunges towards the stage but Raúl already has the second guy up against the wall, sinking his fist into the asshole’s face. Well fuck, Raúl Zamora can handle his shit. But Mickey hasn’t time to be impressed, because a second later and he’s barreled directly into the first of a guy twice his size. Mickey stumbles backwards, regains his balance against a table and surges forward, knocking his assailant on his back. He pummels him with his fist, feeling that rush, that adrenaline he’s really fucking missed, and he laughs because it really does feel fucking good to beat the shit out of some asshole. The body underneath Mickey groans, eventually turns limp and Mickey takes that as his cue, returning to the stage.

“Ay, come on,” he says, grabbing Raúl by the arm, “we gotta go before the police get here.” 

“Mickey!” Raúl turns around, blinks, looks a little dazed. “You came..”

“Yeah, now let’s go,” Mickey chuckles, wryly. “I can't be fucked dealing with the cops tonight.” He ignores Raúl’s protests and drags him by the arm as he runs, weaving them down a confusing route of alleyways and backstreets, stopping finally at a vacant lot. 

Raúl leans against a palm tree, catching his breath, “You really don’t like cops, do you?” he says, breathing heavy.

Shit. The hairs on the back of Mickey’s neck bristle, he feels exposed. “Who the fuck does?” he snaps, defensive, harsher than he’d intended. He chuckles lowly, softens a little, taking a step towards Raúl. “Listen, we’ll go back and get all your shit, later, aight?”

Raúl nods, tonguing at the cut at the edge of his lip. “Tough crowd,” he says, shrugging, “pinche hijo de puta madres y pendejos.” _Fucking sons of bitches and assholes._

“Hey,” Mickey says, gnawing on his bottom lip, stepping closer, closing this distance between them. His mind is blank, and he can barely remember why he came here, can’t remember his plan. “You okay?”

“Estoy bien,” _I’m fine,_ Raúl says quietly, kicking at the dirt idly with his shoe.

They’re standing so close together now, their hips are touching, the air thick and warm between their mouths. Brown eyes are fixed onto blue, intense and expectant, and Mickey knows it’s up to him now - the next move, it’s all his. His stomach twists in that way it does, as his hand meets Raúl’s cheek, that stubble underneath his fingertips - shit, he’s really fucking missed that. His heart pounds heavy and loud in his ears, warmth spreading from his fingers, over his body to his toes.

Mickey shivers, thumb traveling over Raúl’s lips - _those fucking beautiful lips_ \- past the cut, and the only thing he is thinking about is what they’d feel like against his own, how the inside of Raúl’s mouth tastes. “I know what you said to me,” he murmurs, “in Spanish.”

Raúl exhales short and quick, a little shakily. “Two weeks later,” he breathes, hot air dancing across Mickey’s lips in little bursts and Mickey can smell the tequila on his breath. “You visit the Rosetta stone to work it out?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey says quietly, a tiny laugh bubbling in his chest. His eyes are fixed on Raúl’s lips, watching as they part slightly - just a little, and that tongue of his darts out, wetting them. It’s too much.

He’s not sure how it happens, who moved first or if they both did, but Mickey’s lips are pressed against Raúl’s. A kiss. Raúl’s lips are warm and plump and pliant, still open ever so slightly, but unmoving.. and oh shit - it feels good, fucking electric. There’s fingers sliding under Mickey’s shirt, across the small of his back and Mickey chest is warm and full, feels like it might burst. He’s lost in this moment, fucking absorbed in the feel of Raúl’s mouth against his own and how _right_ it feels - how right _he_ feels; fucking perfect, like he’s finally found a piece of himself he didn’t know he was missing. There are no walls, no barriers, nothing else in the world but them. He presses his lips against Raúl’s, harder, sucks at his bottom lip, and then Raúl matches his movements, parting his lips further and Mickey slides his tongue inside Raúl’s mouth, tasting him, fucking his mouth so slowly, sucking his lips. He’s kissing Raúl, and Raúl is kissing him, hands sliding over Mickey’s ass and his hips and chest. This is real - _it’s happening_ \- it’s actually fucking happening. 

Raúl pulls back a little, takes a breath. “Fuck,” he murmurs and they both laugh a little. Mickey presses his body against Raúl harder, their lips melting together again, chasing Raúl's mouth with his tongue. It’s a little messier this time, more relaxed; no resistance, no tension, just tongues licking into each others mouths, the delicious smacking sound of wet lips and warm, short breaths. He runs his fingers over Raúl’s neck, feeling the sensation as Raúl hums in pleasure. He cups Raúl’s cheeks, runs his hands through his hair, underneath his shirt, over his tight, smooth chest - fucking everywhere. 

“Shit,” Raúl pulls away, panting, dropping a kiss, then another, and another against Mickey’s lips. “Fuck,” he breathes, lips travelling over Mickey’s neck, teeth nibbling at the skin. “Is this.. Are we.. ?”

Mickey hums. He doesn’t want to talk right now; he wants to kiss and bite and fuck and then kiss some more. “Let’s go back to my joint.”

Raúl nods. “Can I-?”

Mickey takes a step back, sighing. “Yes,” he interrupts.

“You don’t know what I was going to ask,” Raúl laughs, punches at Mickey’s shoulder, playful. 

“Don’t matter. Yes to it all.”

* * *

Raúl slides another finger into Mickey, working him open, and Mickey groans against his mouth, whines a little. It’s been a little while, two weeks, and Mickey needs the prep, he’s kinda tight, still snug and clinging around Raúl’s fingers. Raúl takes his time, moves his fingers in and out, twisting a little, teasing. He slides his hand over Mickey’s ass cheek, a little squeeze - and Mickey takes the hint, starts rolling his hips, fucking himself on his fingers. Greedy, desperate. Raúl stifles the laugh that tickles his throat and focuses on kissing Mickey, licking at his lips, tongue sliding against Mickey’s exploring the inside of his mouth, slow and deep and fucking beautiful. He could do this all night - just kiss Mickey like this, until his lips are red and swollen and sore. 

Raúl shifts a little, pulls Mickey closer to him in his lap, close enough that their dicks are touching, some friction finally against his throbbing, leaking cock. “Eres hermoso,” Raúl moans and he rolls his hips, an instinct - harder, faster, needing something, that rhythm, chasing friction of his own.

Mickey whines desperately because Raúl’s fingers have slipped out with the movement and he’s thrusting, head back, whining, ass aimlessly searching for Raúl’s fingertips. Raúl pulls his lips from Mickey’s mouth, leans back a little, watches Mickey so fucking desperate and needy and beautiful in his lap. He slides his hand around between them, and he can’t help it - seeing Mickey like that - face to face finally - it’s too much, and he starts stroking himself, precum spreading over his fingers. Shit that feels good, his dick is swollen and aching and he needs some relief, just a little. 

“Fuck..” Mickey moans, lowly, bites down on his bottom lip. “More.. give me.. I want it..”

Raúl leans forward, teeth nipping at Mickey’s outstretched neck, biting at him. “What is it that you want, Mickey?” he pants and he runs his fingers past Mickey’s cleft, between his ass checks, around the slick, warm wetness of his hole. “Quatro? You want four?” he breathes and Mickey nods, shudders, thrusts down against Raúl’s hand and he slips four fingers inside him slowly, gently. 

“So full,” Mickey whines, “so fucking full,” and the muscles are straining and contracting around Raúl’s fingers as Mickey thrusts against his hand, whining and almost sobbing - taking Raúl so well, so perfectly. 

Mickey mewls and pants and groans in his lap and Raúl prises his hand from his dick, whining at the loss, rubs the small of Mickey’s back gently. Shit, he’s beautiful like this - straining and flushed and eager. So fucking beautiful. “Tú puedes,” _You can do this,_ Raúl pants and he licks a stripe over the column of Mickey’s neck, presses kisses along his jaw, “eres bueno… so good,” and then Mickey wraps his fingers around Raúl’s dick, working his shaft up and down in time with his own thrusts - long, languid strokes, that little twist at the tip, milking him of precum. 

Raúl hisses and pants from the friction, the sticky, hot feeling of pre-cum leaking and spreading over him and he groans, starts babbling in two languages, _si, pinche por fin, shit, muy bueno, fucking finally_ and he throws his head back, thrusting, rolling his hips and fucking at Mickey’s hand, while Mickey fucks himself on Raúl’s fingers. 

“Gotta fuck… we gotta..” Mickey whines, hot and breathy, “can’t keep.. m’not gonna last..” but his words are saying one thing while his body defies him, wild and out of control, because he keeps fucking himself, keeps sinking down on Raúl’s fingers.

Raúl mutters in spanish, agreeing, _si, bien, de acuerdo_ , breathing heavy, his mind a mess of half thoughts and fantasies, but he somehow finds the presence of mind to fumble for the condom, unwrapping it, whining greedily from the loss as they separate from each other. Shit, he really needs to fuck, the tip of his dick is almost purple and it’s twitching, throbbing under his fingers, but he pauses for a minute, looks at Mickey sitting in his lap, all flushed and sweaty, lips red and slightly swollen. And then he puts a hand on Mickey’s face, looks into his eyes - because they’ve kissed now, and Mickey said _yes to everything.._

Mickey seems to know what Raúl is thinking because he licks his lips, nods and Raúl shudders, a shiver from his toes to his shoulders - they communicate so well like this, so in synch with each other. Mickey shifts, straddling Raúl, kneeling in his lap and Raúl runs his hand over Mickey’s neck to his chest, wraps his legs around him. 

“You’re perfect.. lindísimo, Mickey,” _gorgeous,_ he breathes, leaning forward, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s lips, and then he hisses as Mickey positions himself against Raúl’s dick and presses himself down, slowly, until Raúl is sinking effortlessly into Mickey’s tight, slippery heat. Raúl whines, muttering half words, then kisses him, as Mickey situates himself, the two of them slotting together like they were made for each other. Two puzzles pieces finding each other, finally.

They wince together, and Raúl pulls Mickey toward him, trailing kisses over Mickey’s chin and neck and jaw, as they thrust in unison, Mickey riding him with Raúl’s hips bucking in response, chasing every movement Mickey makes. Raúl hisses as Mickey bottoms out, moans lowly and increases his speed and Raúl feels like he’s dreaming; lips against lips and tongues and teeth biting against necks - and shit, they’re really doing this, kissing and fucking face to face for the first time.

Raúl’s hands move to Mickey’s hips and he digs his fingers in, taking back some control, so close together their chests are sticky with heat and sweat. “Love when you fuck yourself on me… you fuck so well, Mickey..” Raúl pants, sliding his hands around to Mickey’s ass cheeks, kneading it, pulling it towards him. Fuck, it’s beautiful. Mickey is beautiful. _Everything_ is fucking beautiful. 

Raúl bucks his hips deep and hard and Mickey keens loudly, moaning from some place inside himself, primal, instinctual. “Fuck, yes.. there.. there.. got it,” Mickey rasps, throws his head back and Raúl repeats the action, fucking at him over and over, Mickey sobbing and whining each time he hits that sweet spot. Raúl moans lowly, because he’s getting close too; feels that warm sensation, that urgency building inside him, the hot pleasure in his gut and his dick. 

“Soon, Mickey,” he rasps and he pushes their foreheads together, one hand on Mickey’s cheek, eye contact, intense and beautiful; blue eyes, brown eyes completely connected for the first time. He’s overwhelmed, full of emotions he can’t name right now, because he he can’t believe it, he’s dreamed about this moment with Mickey, didn’t think it was ever going to happen. 

_I really like you Mickey, I haven’t felt like this in a very long time._

“M’gonna.. m’gonna,” Mickey mewls, and he increases his speed, thrusting frantically from the hips, riding Raúl like his life depends on it. Raúl groans wildly from the increase in friction, looks down at Mickey’s dick and it’s so hard and swollen and red on the end, looks like it could fucking burst, that he doesn’t even think about finishing Mickey off, knows he doesn’t need it.

Raúl wraps his arms around Mickey, pulling him close, their bodies entirely connected and then he presses their lips together, tongues fucking into each other’s mouths, as they thrust together, hard and deep and fast the last few final times. Raúl feels his orgasm building in his toes, spreading slow, warm waves of pleasure all over him. Then they’re both coming, moaning into each other’s mouths, kissing and licking at each other through their orgasm, chasing the pleasure and friction with their hips.

“Holy fuck,” Mickey rasps, pulling his lips away from Raúl’s with a smacking sound, chuckling, “shit.”

Raúl hums, panting, catching his breath. His mind is useless, spent; nothing but a blank page. He tightens his arms around Mickey, and he can feel Mickey’s cum on his stomach, wet and slick, spreading between them from the contact and he couldn’t care less. It’s there because they fucked face to face and that’s all he can think about right now. Mickey slumps against him, and Raúl pulls them both down onto the mattress.

Mickey reaches over the side of the bed, passes Raúl a towel and he cleans them both off, rolls onto his side so they’re facing each other. Raúl brushes a strand of Mickey’s hair out of his eyes, smiles as it sticks against his sweaty forehead. He exhales sharply, just staring at Mickey, pink cheeks and sweat beading against his skin - he’s so pretty, even prettier when he’s all soft and sleepy like this, freshly fucked.

Mickey bites down on his lip, laughs quietly, nervously, “So that was different,” he says and Raúl nods. He presses a kiss to Mickey’s lips, soft, sweet, his tongue sliding in, and then they’re kissing again - languid and lazy, a little sloppy, beautiful. 

A shiver tickles at Raúl’s skin as he kisses Mickey - as they make out - because he can’t believe he’s here, in Mickey’s bed, kissing. Finally. Part of him still thinks he might be dreaming, because he’s longed for this moment, from the day they first met at the beach. His chest swells and throbs with that beautiful feeling of warmth because he feels happy and whole and completely _himself_ for the first time in a long time - _years._

Raúl pulls his lips away from Mickey’s finally, mouth curling into a smile and he presses the end of his nose softly against Mickey’s. An eskimo kiss. “Hola,” he says quietly, “I’m Raúl.”

Mickey’s eyebrows knit in confusion, and Raúl can see him thinking, wondering if he’s lost his mind. “Uhh.. hi,” Mickey says, chuckling, raising an eyebrow, “I’m Mickey.”

Raúl grins, laughing, wrapping his arms and legs around Mickey completely.

_It’s nice to finally meet you, Mickey._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KISSED!!! Lots of times :) I also have to give a thankyou to the tumblr anon who suggested Seagal as the name for Mickey's goat - genius! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed this! I always end up writing long ass chapters, so the next couple are going to be a bit shorter but you will have them sooner. 
> 
> As always, I love your comments - they inspire me to keep going!. And I love these two together - I could talk about them all day.
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	11. Parachute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raúl stays over.

_Saturday_

Mickey stretches, rolls over on his back, sunlight prickling sharp and painful at his eyes. He groans, throwing an arm over his face as he adjusts to the harsh morning light. Behind his eyelids, memories of last night’s dreams play in fragments; a bar fight, him and Raúl under a palm tree, Raúl’s lips against his, in bed together, making out. Jesus fucking christ. Another dream about that fucking guy. 

He laughs wryly at himself and rolls over, winces as he buries his face in the pillow. His cheek feels bruised, punched. And then there’s that feeling deep inside him - that dull, satisfied ache and his hard on is twitching uselessly against the sheets in response. He sucks on his bottom lip, tastes it warm and raw, a little metallic against his tongue and - holy fuck. The kissing, the making out, Raúl in his bed all fucking night - he’s putting the fragments together now. He wasn’t dreaming, all that shit actually happened. They kissed, they made out, they fucked, Raúl slept over.

Mickey huffs quietly, that flutter in his stomach taking over, and he thinks about what it all means now he’s finally let Raúl inside his walls. Mickey and Raúl. Raúl and Mickey. The pulsing warmth in his chest spreads over over him, flushing in his cheeks and he smiles as he turns over, arm outstretched, searching for Raúl’s body next to his. But his hand lands on cold sheets, instead of Raúl’s chest and Mickey opens his eyes, frowns. 

The bed is empty; a mess of crumped sheets where Raúl should be laying. He’s gone. Mickey snorts in disgust, shakes his head, disappointment and annoyance burning a fire in his gut. Fucking typical. He let his guard down, finally gave in, no - he fucking gave himself _over_ to the guy and then he fucks off first chance he gets. Just perfect.

Mickey slides his boxers on, climbs out of bed, kicking clothes and shoes across the floor as he stomps a path across the hallway to the bathroom. He's scowling at the tiles and pissing into the bowl when Seagal bleats from the backyard. That damn goat is the last thing he feels like listening to this morning. Mickey shakes himself off, slides the bathroom window open, leans out.

“Will you shut your fucking mouth or do I gotta put a muzzle on you?” he yells, “Jesus _fucking_ christ!”

“Hola, Mickey,” Raúl appears outside the window, chuckling, all lopsided grin and that damn sparkle behind his eyes. He waves a shopping bag between them, “I went to the bodega. You didn't have any food.”

Mickey chuckles lowly, heat rising in his cheeks, relieved, a little embarrassed if he’s honest. “Aight,” he shrugs, swallowing the happiness that bubbles in his chest, plays it cool, “use the backdoor.” He squirts toothpaste into his mouth, swallows as he leaves the bathroom, meeting Raúl in the kitchen. He watches from the doorway as Raúl sets the shopping down on the bench - four full bags of snacks and food and drinks - and the entire scene looks so ordinary, like he’s done it a hundreds times before, that Mickey feels a flush, a little pleasant shiver running under his skin. 

Raúl turns around, that cheeky smile on his face, catches Mickey’s eyes on him, staring. “You moving in or some shit,” Mickey says, a nervous laugh, and then he watches the disappointment as it flashes quickly Raúl’s face and he feels guilty. He’s just no good at this _morning after_ shit; doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what the fuck is going on between them now.

“I didn’t know what you eat at home, Mickey,” Raúl says, shrugging, starts emptying the shopping bags, covering the bench in tins and packets and boxes, “So I got meat, beans, salsa, tortillas. And frozen shit too - lots of Mexican and North American crap.” 

Mickey nods, humming. “I’ll eat anything. I don’t give a fuck,” he says, and he grabs two cups from the cupboard. “You drink coffee, right?”

Raúl nods. “White with one sugar,” he grins, pulls a carton of milk out of a bag. “You didn’t have any milk, either.”

“Cos I ain’t a fucking lightweight. I drink my coffee black,” Mickey chuckles, spooning coffee into the pot. 

“I know, Mickey,” Raúl licks his lips, tucks his hair behind his ear. “You’re little spoon, but you’re still tough.” 

_Little spoon._

Mickey exhales sharply, warmth bubbling in his chest and over his skin as he thinks about last night; the two of them in bed together, Raúl’s body wrapped around his own as they kissed and fucked, and fell asleep only to wake up and do it all over again. And yeah, he was the fucking little spoon but shit, it felt good to be with someone like that again - to be with _Raúl_ like that finally. He leans back against the fridge, bites down on his lips as he watches Raúl, working his way around the kitchen, that lanky body of his, skinny jeans hugging his ass and his hips, the way his tshirt clings across his shoulders and his back. Mickey’s dick stirs impatiently in his boxers; just watching the guy pack groceries away is sexy as hell - shit, Raúl is sexy as hell. 

“You like eggs, Mickey?”

“What?” Mickey chuckles, and he thinks for a second - what was he doing? Coffee - that’s right. He adds water to the pot. “Who the fuck doesn’t like eggs?

Raúl shrugs, opening and closing cupboard doors, searching for something. “Vegans, Mickey.. ahh this is what I want,” he sets Mickey’s frying pan down on the stovetop, turns the gas on. “I can cook us huevos rancheros. It's a good Mexican breakfast. You'll like it.” 

“Fucking vegans, huh?” Mickey laughs out loud, “yeah, that woulda gone down real well in pr-.” _In prison._ Mickey bites down on his lip. Shit, that was close. He closes his eyes, forcing the truth from his mind. He really fucking hates having to lie about this shit to Raúl, especially now - makes him feel like a fucking asshole. “Sounds fancy,” he mutters and he looks around him, tries to find something to do, take the heat off. “You a chef or some shit, huh?”

“My abuela taught me how to cook a few things,” Raúl says, chuckling, and Mickey watches as he cracks four eggs into the pan. “She likes to know her boy won’t starve.”

Mickey hums, reaching for the money jar from the top of the fridge. He counts out a few hundred pesos, presses them into Raúl’s hand, lets his fingers linger around Raúl’s for a few seconds. “Ay, this should cover the food.”

Raúl’s hand closes around the money and they look at each other. Brown eyes on blue, but it feels different this morning, less intense than last night, and Mickey can sense something behind Raúl’s eyes - something he hasn’t seen before. Raúl looks away, long strands of hair falling across his face and he brushes the hair out of his eyes, laughs quietly. Well, shit - Mickey gets it now; the groceries, cooking breakfast, the fucking Mary Poppins act. Raúl is nervous, probably feels almost as fucking awkward with this _morning after_ dance as he does.

“Hey,” Mickey says, and he takes a step towards Raúl, reaches for him, tucks the fallen hair behind his ear. “C’mere.” He closes the distance between them, presses Raúl against the edge of the bench. 

Raúl grins, licks his lips, “Hola,” he says and Mickey catches Raúl’s bottom lip between his own, sucks on it, letting it go with a little wet popping sound. Raúl exhales shakily, hot and moist against Mickey’s lips, and Mickey leans in, presses his lips against Raúl’s, runs his hand over his cheek, past his chin. 

He feels Raúl’s lips part against his own and Mickey slides his tongue in, licking at the inside of his mouth, tasting him - feeling their tongues sliding together, hot and warm and slick. His hands are in Raúl’s hair, cradling the back of his head and shit, even when they’re close like this, tongues in each other’s mouths, Mickey still needs more, doesn’t know how he ever lived without it. They really should have been doing this since the day they fucking met. 

Raúl’s hands slide under Mickey’s tank top and inside his boxers, cupping his ass, a finger running between Mickey’s cheeks and he moans, low and needy against Raúl’s lips. He pulls his mouth away, needs to catch his breath. “Hey.. I like.. “ Mickey bites down on his bottom lip, tries to find his words, his heart beating heavy in his chest; _me gustas, me gustas._ There’s goosebumps prickling his skin as Raúl rubs small circles over his back and that warm, pleasant twist in his gut again. He’s overwhelmed, his mind a mess of thoughts and feelings, things he should probably say if he knew how to say them. “I like that you’re here,” he says finally, “.. that you stayed.”

Raúl laughs, presses his lips against Mickey’s, trails kisses along his jaw, “I like that you didn’t kick me out.” 

Mickey grins, impressed. The fucking smart mouth on this guy. He leans his head back, turns himself over to Raúl’s lips. “Still could.”

Raúl huffs a quiet laugh, warm breath and lips against MIckey’s neck. “You gotta work this weekend Mickey?”

“Tonight. You?” he rasps, hisses as Raúl sinks his teeth into his skin, biting at soft flesh. 

“I was planning on taking a road trip. But..” Raúl says, dropping another kiss to Mickey’s lips, hands sliding down, cupping his ass cheeks and Mickey finds himself rolling his hips slow and greedy in response. “I’ve decided I’ll stick around.”

Raúl runs a finger around Mickey’s hole, teasing, and Mickey just nods, hums quietly because it’s all he can manage right now. “We’ve got food, weed, beer,” Raúl slides his finger inside and Mickey exhales, heavy and low. “Everything we need to stay here all weekend.”

Mickey whines, a little shaky, as Raúl removes his finger from him completely, slides two back in and Mickey moans and bucks against his hand. Shit, he’s still slick and stretched from the last time they fucked and Raúl’s fingers fit him - fuck, Raúl fits him so fucking well. 

“You could take the night off.”

Mickey nods, agreeing, offering no resistance at all. He hasn’t much of a work ethic if he’s honest, but with Raúl’s lips on his skin, his fingers inside him and his own dick aching and leaking in his boxers, it’s non-existent, gone. “I’ll call in sick.”

Raúl leans forward, nose against Mickey’s, a little bump. “Call in fucked,” he murmurs, slips another finger inside him, sucks at Mickey’s bottom lip. “You will be, by the time I'm finished with you.”

 _Call in fucked._

Holy shit. Mickey shudders, just nods again because Raúl’s confidence is back and it’s sexy as fuck and hits him straight in the dick. He pulls away slightly, rocks back onto Raúl’s fingers and starts fumbling at his jeans, fighting with that zipper, impatient. He’s pulling at Raúl’s jeans, fucking himself slowly on his fingers, and Raúl’s other hand fights desperately with Mickey’s tank top, and they’re laughing and panting raggedly and-

“Que?” Raúl pushes Mickey away, yanks his fingers from him and Mickey whines at the loss, confused and kinda fucking annoyed. “What is that smell?” 

There’s a whooshing sound, a loud, crackling burst of heat and Mickey pushes past Raúl, spins around, stands head on with the flames that have enveloped the frying pan. “Holy fuck!” Mickey screams, “We got a fucking fire! Jesus fucking christ!” He grabs a tea towel, batting at the flames, but it doesn’t help - it just seems to make them bigger. Raúl lunges towards the fire and Mickey watches horrified, as the scene plays out in slow motion; Raúl next to the stove, armed with the coffee pot full of coffee and water, his arm moving back, swinging. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to fucking-” Mickey screams, but it’s too late; the entire contents of the pot travels across the kitchen, landing squarely on the flames. The liquid hisses, turns to steam, flames fanned and lapping at the ceiling. Jesus christ, this will end badly, if he doesn’t do something and quickly. He looks around the kitchen, frantic, spots an oven tray. He throws it on top of the pan with a loud clatter, turns the gas off. 

The flames dissipate, leaving a haze of smoke and the stench of burned eggs and coffee in their wake and Mickey sighs, pinches at the bridge of his nose, “What the fuck….” he shakes his head, tries to dull the chaos. “You cannot cook for shit, man.”

Raúl coughs a little, laughs, “You distracted me, Mickey.”

“It ain’t fucking funny, Raúl,” he bites back, forehead creased in a frown, but Raúl just looks at him, grinning - that cheeky fucking grin and laughter behind his eyes. Mickey paces, cursing under his breath.

“Está bien, todo estar bien,” _it's fine, everything is fine,_ Raúl says, hands wrapping around Mickey’s forearms, “nobody was hurt. We can laugh about it now.” 

Mickey breathes heavily, chewing on his bottom lip and Raúl rubs his thumbs over the skin on his arms, soft. It feels good, relaxing, and Mickey closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Still thinking about kicking your ass out,” he mutters, but his annoyance is fading and his lips curl into slow smile, betraying him. 

Raúl pulls Mickey towards him, arms around his shoulders. “But you won’t,” he says, pressing his forehead against Mickey’s and a kiss to his lips, and Mickey rolls his eyes, gives in - lets himself laugh finally.

* * *

Raúl blinks, mentally pinches himself, can barely believe the scene in front of him. Only three days ago he’d been convinced he’d never see Mickey again, that the two of them were done, and now they’re spending the entire weekend together, hanging out, making out, fucking, and right now Mickey’s head is between Raúl’s legs licking a fat, wet stripe over his dick. He leans his head back against the couch, a sound escaping his lips; part whine, part needy sigh, as Mickey runs tongue over him again, teasing.

It’s the first time Mickey has put his mouth on him like this, and Raúl shivers - the intimacy of it is overwhelming, because he knows it’s more than a blow job, it’s an invitation; Mickey telling him _me gustas_ in his own way, inviting Raúl in through the crack in his armour. He feels Mickey’s tongue darting against the tip of his dick, hot breath tickling against him, and Raúl starts thrusting slowly, gently, chasing Mickey’s mouth, needing to feel it around him. He’s waited months for this moment, and now these last final seconds feel like a lifetime - too long. 

“You want it huh,” Mickey growls and Raúl looks down at him, blue eyes meeting his own, holding together in a stare, and Raúl nods, opens his mouth again to speak but he just whines again, whimpers almost. Shit yes, he wants this - needs it. Mickey chuckles, maintains eye contact and Raúl watches, breath held, as he licks his lips; tongue darting between mouth and dick in tiny little laps. 

“Por favor,” Raúl hears himself saying, his voice shaky, needy, “Mickey, por favor.” 

Mickey chuckles again and Raúl thrusts a little, tries to meet his open mouth, and then he smirks, leans down finally, wraps his lips around Raúl’s dick. Raúl sighs, low and loud, watching his dick disappear inside Mickey’s mouth; those pink lips, moist and stretched and straining around his dick, taking it all. It’s fucking beautiful. Raúl shudders, feels the inside of Mickey’s mouth, warm and wet and soft, and he moves his hands to Mickey’s hair, fingers digging in, nails against his scalp, soft pressure guiding him, _this is what I want Mickey, this is what I want you to do me._ And he moans again as Mickey starts moving against him, finally - moving that mouth up and down over his dick, soft, slow, deliberate. Beautiful. 

“Tan bueno,” Raúl rasps, and he leans his head against the couch, “muy perfecto.” He closes his eyes, and he hears his own voice, babbling away in Spanish as usual; a bubbling stream of compliments and curse words, gibberish probably. But he can’t think of anything but the hot, wet pressure of Mickey’s mouth, the way his tongue darts around his dick, lapping at it, making out - no, making love to Raúl’s dick with those lips and that tongue. 

Raúl feels himself thrusting faster, hand pressing harder against Mickey’s head, setting the pace and Mickey hums in response, sending little vibrations tickling over his shaft. Raúl keens, hips bucking upwards chasing the warm, sweet pleasure of Mickey’s mouth as it slides up and down him, over and over.

“Mickey you’re so…” Raúl whines but he doesn’t know what he’s going to say because he can feel that pressure building inside him, pleasure washing over him in waves, tingling, causing goose bumps on his skin and he’s red hot and alive, feels like he’s on fire. He looks down at Mickey again, watches him as he slides his mouth over his dick, and Mickey’s cheeks are flushed, his lips red and swollen, and Raúl holds his breath, listens to the slick, wet sound of Mickey’s mouth and the soft, greedy whines catching in his own throat. The whole moment looks and sounds and feels beautiful; the warmth swelling in his chest, Mickey, the pair of them together, everything - all of it. And then Mickey looks up at him again, blue eyes blown out, wild and intense with heat, and Raúl is close, won’t last much longer. 

“Fuck… pronto,” he rasps, “soon, Mickey,” and then Mickey’s mouth slides off his dick with a wet pop. Raúl looks at Mickey - mouth all swollen and his face wet with saliva and pre-cum, hand in his own pants, jerking himself off and he’s panting, trying to catch his breath - looks almost as fucked as Raúl feels. 

“You’re so beautiful like that,” Raúl rasps, thrusting greedily still, hips bucking in the air at nothing, “look so good when I fuck your mouth.”

Mickey huffs a little, groans, licking his lips and he wraps his fingers around Raúl’s cock, jerking it in time with his own while he chases his own ragged breaths. Raúl runs a hand over Mickey’s face, his chin, spreading spit and pre-cum over his lips and Mickey sucks his fingers, licks them clean. They look at each other for a few seconds, breathing together, then Mickey nods and Raúl exhales slowly because he’s ready for Mickey to push him over that cliff with his lips and tongue. 

Raúl moans as he watches Mickey swallow his dick again - watches him eat it up as if his life depends on it, and he thrusts harder and faster into Mickey’s mouth, shuddering as he groans and hums around him. Mickey takes him deeper and Raúl mewls at the thought of being so far inside Mickey’s mouth, hips jerking forward and then - oh shit, he bottoms out, and he groans again because he knows he’s hit the back of Mickey’s throat. Raúl leans forward, hand against Mickey’s neck and he feels his throat swell and contract in time with his thrusts. Fucking perfect.

“Mickey.. I..” Raúl whines, toes curling, that sweet pulsing heat building inside him. He’s close, any second now, “Si, si, bueno.. ahora.” He babbles in Spanish and English, hand fisting in Mickey’s hair, his body on fire and electrified, feels so fucking good. He moans again, loud, hips stuttering and then he’s coming, hard and hot and Mickey licks and sucks and takes it all, milking him.

They separate and Raúl rests back on the couch, breathless, panting, watching Mickey flushed and warm, sweat beading on his forehead as he jerks himself off. 

“Don’t..” Raúl rasps and he swats Mickey’s hand away from his own dick, “let me finish you.” Mickey looks up at him, eyes wild and he grunts, a little moan. But Raúl knows what he wants to do; he hasn’t tried it like this before but he wants to - needs to give himself over to Mickey too, allow himself to be vulnerable. He shuffles down to lay on the couch, hand on Mickey’s shoulder pulling him towards him. “Fuck my face, Mickey. I want you to.”

Mickey pauses for a beat, nods and then he’s straddling Raúl, knees either side of his head and Raúl opens his mouth, ready, waiting. There’s no teasing, no torturous laps at Mickey’s dick because he’s too far gone for that and Raúl knows it. 

“Fuck… fucking look at you,” Mickey whines as Raúl wraps his mouth around his dick, and Raúl grunts and moans around him as he thrusts in short, hard bursts into his mouth and throat. It’s hot and quick, and fucking filthy and Raúl is smiling around Mickey’s dick as he bucks and rolls his hips and curses as comes.

Raúl wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, cups Mickey’s face in the other, and Mickey leans into the touch, brushes his lips across Raúl’s wrist, holds them there.

* * *

_Sunday_

Raúl wraps his arms around Mickey, pulling him down to lay against him; Mickey’s back against his chest. He presses his lips to Mickey’s neck, soft, lazy. He’s tired, exhausted really, body aching from the sex, lips red and tender from kissing. Raúl smiles, - there’s been alot of kissing, but now he needs to just _be_ with Mickey like this. Close, quiet, still. 

The sun is setting outside and the tv is the only light in the room, a telenovela rolling by in Spanish, subtitles in English. Raúl slides his hands under Mickey’s tshirt, soft pale skin underneath his fingertips and he exhales slowly, still finds it hard to believe that he can do this now - touch Mickey like this, without worrying he’ll be pushed away, ignored. This is what he’s wanted since the day he first met Mickey at the beach - to be given the chance to get to know the man behind the knuckle tattoos and the smart mouth. Now it’s finally happening, Raúl thinks he could stay this way forever; him and Mickey in a bubble, no responsibilities, no hurdles - just the two of them together. One long, lazy weekend that never ends. But Raúl wants more now - he knew he would - he wants it all; the parts Mickey likes about himself, those he doesn’t. Raúl wants all of that, and he wants to give those parts of himself to Mickey too.

“Esto es bonito,” _this is nice,_ Raúl hears himself say and Mickey shifts a little, hums quietly in response. Raúl’s fingers continue their dance over Mickey’s stomach and he presses a line of kisses behind his ear, over his jaw.

“The fuck are we watching?” Mickey asks, chuckling quietly. 

“Yago,” Raúl presses his lips into Mickey’s hair, inhales the scent of pepper. “You haven’t seen it?”

Mickey shakes his head, no. “Looks alright. Better than some of the other shit I’ve watched down here.”

Raúl hums quietly, agreeing, “I like Yago.”

“What’s it about, then?”

Raúl grins, laughs quietly, loves how ordinary this is, talking telenovelas with his- with _the guy he really likes_. “A man was framed for a crime, Mickey,” he says, fingers running through Mickey’s hair, rubbing circles on his forehead. “But he breaks out of prison, assumes the identify of Yago and seeks revenge on all those who betrayed him.”

“Huh,” Mickey snorts, barely audible, and Raúl feels Mickey’s body tense a little, forehead twitching beneath his fingertips.

“Yago is fucking cool,” Raúl says absently, lips in Mickey’s hair, “a really great character.”

Mickey grunts again, a sneer almost, condescending. “So what.. what..” he pauses, clears his throat, “what is it you like about this fucking Yago?”

Raúl chews on the inside of his cheek, thinking. “Yago is a badass,” he shrugs, “takes justice into his own hands, doesn’t put up with any shit. It’s a good story.”

Mickey snorts derisively, wraps his arms over his chest. Raúl can feel Mickey tense, agitated above him and he imagines him gnawing on his bottom lip, eyes wild and darting, on edge. 

“Estas bien, Mickey?” _You okay?_ Raúl asks.

“I’m fucking fine,” he snaps, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He pauses for a second, sighing, relaxing a little, “I’m good, aight. Real good.”

Raúl hums thoughtfully, thinks Mickey seems almost.. jealous. He grins, trying not to laugh - it would probably be frustrating if it wasn’t so damn adorable. “There’s nothing going on between me and Yago,” he teases, pinching at Mickey’s stomach, playful. “We don’t even know each other.”

Mickey laughs, turns over onto his stomach, faces Raúl. “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?”

“He’s not my type,” Raúl murmurs, catching Mickey’s bottom lip between his teeth, a little nip. “I like gringos - _a gringo_.”

“It ain’t that, smartass,” Mickey huffs, shakes his head quickly, “It’s nothin’. M’just tired.”

Raúl nods, laughing, doesn’t believe Mickey for a second. “You’re the only one I want,” Raúl continues, enjoying the game, ghosting his fingers over the skin of Mickey’s back, “Yago can go fuck himself.”

Mickey snorts, flicking his fingers against Raúl's forehead. “You’re so fucking weird,” he grumbles, and the edges of his mouth twitch into a grin. He leans down, presses his lips against Raúl’s, soft and still and Raúl sucks on Mickey’s bottom lip, parting his lips with his tongue. They kiss slowly, lazily with heavy tongues, fingers exploring every curve, soft touches and firm pressure. Raúl’s lips are raw, and it stings a little but he doesn’t care, thinks he could kiss Mickey like this for the rest of his life. At the very least for the rest of the night. 

* * *

Mickey exhales smoke from his cigarette, watching as it winds and curls, lit by the moonlight streaming in through a crack in the blinds. He can’t sleep. It’s the first time since he split from prison that a dream has followed him into wakefulness, keeping him from sliding back under.

He’d dreamed he was falling, tumbling through the air with Raúl; laughing, somersaulting like a couple of teenagers on a trampoline. And for a while it had been fun - an adrenaline rush - the way they fell with the air rushing past them, whooshing noises in their ears. But then Raúl had pulled on his parachute, and Mickey had tried to do the same, but his own chute wouldn’t deploy. So he’d continued to plummet, hurtling to the ground while Raúl floated, slowly and fucking gracefully behind him. Mickey had called out and Raúl had waved goodbye - still smiling, somehow still fucking happy - becoming smaller and smaller as the distance increased between them.

Mickey had woken up then, before hitting the ground. And now he’s sitting up in bed, with Raúl sprawled out naked and asleep and beautiful next to him, and all Mickey can think about is goddamn Yago.

_Yago._

Yago, the _fucking badass_ who escaped prison and took justice into his own hands. Yago, who barged into Mickey’s living room, interrupted the best two days he’s spent in.. a really fucking long time and threw his past in his fucking face. He’d been happy, more or less, rarely thinking about that detail of his life. Sure, he’s cautious and he’s careful, tries to keep his head down, stay out of trouble - but he’s become used to the quite paranoia buzzing in the back of his head; he’s been able to ignore that nervous chatter, force it out of his mind. So it was a fucking shock when Yago showed up, slapping him in the face with _reality -_ as absurd as his reality is - and he didn’t really know how to react around Raúl, or what to do about it. Still doesn’t.

Mickey stubs out the last of his cigarette in the ashtray next to his bed and watches Raúl sleep. His chest swells with that warm feeling again, and he wonders whether a fugitive should even be doing this - getting into this relationship or whatever the fuck it is he’s doing. He really wants to - just thinks that maybe he shouldn’t. But he’s falling, just like in his dream; like he did in the fucking Southside back in the day without even knowing it. And he fucking knows himself well enough by now to know that his parachute won’t open; it won’t slow him down or stop him, or help him change course. As soon as he jumped off that cliff with Raúl two days ago, he’d started free-falling and he’ll keep doing that until he lands. 

The moon is lighting Raúl’s skin, silvery white against his tattoos and Mickey can’t take his eyes off that tattoo on his ribcage - a feather - detailed and.. fucking beautiful, really. Probably hurt like a bitch getting it done, too. But Mickey figures Raúl just smiled, winced a little, but took it in his stride - probably even laughed about it afterwards. Mickey runs his fingers over the tattoo, traces around it - he can’t help himself - and Raúl stirs, mumbles sleepily from the pillow.

“Ay,” Mickey says quietly, almost a whisper. “go back to sleep.” 

Raúl turns his head, eyes fluttering open. “Para dónde vas?” _Where are you going,_ he asks. 

Mickey huffs quietly, brushes his fingers over Raúl’s arm. It’s probably selfish, but he just needs to touch, to know they’re both here, awake and on land.

 _Nowhere._ He hears the word loud inside his head, but he stays quiet as he lays back down next to Raúl, wrapping an arm around him. 

Big spoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally Raúl got to sleep in Mickey's bed and.. other things. I hope you enjoyed this fluff and smut with bonus plot and character development!
> 
> About Yago: I have this headcanon that Mickey and Raul watch telenovelas together so while researching them months ago I read about one called Yago. It's based on the Count of Monte Cristo and the plot is pretty much what Raúl described. It's not a cheesy, dramatic romance like alot of them; it's dark and violent and I can totally see it piquing Mickey's interest.
> 
> Raúl's feather tattoo;  
>   
> As always, thankyou for reading and leaving comments!


	12. Yago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys!! I went on holiday shortly after posting the last chapter so it's been a while between updates. But here we are, chapter 12. Here's a recap of Chapter 11:
> 
> Listen, I've been travelling for a month and even I remember what happened in the last chapter of Trailblazer. How about you pay better attention next time? Or don't. Whatever, I ain't your fucking keeper.
> 
> Raúl stayed at Mickey's house all weekend, they both almost burned the house down because they are not domestic goddesses, Raúl got to sleep in Mickey's bed which he really liked and they watched a telenovela about a fugitive together, which made Mickey feel guilty because he realised he really, really likes Raúl.
> 
>   
>    
> 

“When you gonna tell me where the fuck we’re going, then?” Mickey exhales sharply from his cigarette, smoke curling in a cloud between them.

Raúl smiles, a warm flutter in his chest and under his skin as Mickey passes him his cigarette. It’s a simple gesture, something small that Mickey has done since they spent last weekend together, but to Raúl, it feels large, significant. Because with Mickey, the little things always mean so much; a bite of his lip, a raise of eyebrows, a kiss. Raúl sees the truth behind the gestures; whether Mickey is sharing his bed, his beer or a cigarette, Raúl knows it’s another little sign, proof that they’re getting closer still and that Mickey is letting it happen. Mickey is finally letting _them_ happen. Raúl inhales, holds his breath for a second or two, needs to bring his mind back to the present, to _right now_ and the fact they’re on a date. Their first _real_ date. They pass the cigarette back and forth between as they walk, the sun beginning its slow retreat behind the horizon; it’s daylight, and he’s walked this path hundreds of times but this is the first time he’s been here with Mickey and this feels intimate, special. Raúl can’t wipe the smile off his face.

Raúl hums, leads them around a corner, past the famous row of pastel painted buildings crowded with tourists taking photos, past the archaeological museum and the cafes with the spiced hot chocolate that Aleja likes - his favourite area in the city. “I’m kidnapping you, Mickey,” he brushes a hand over the back of Mickey’s neck, lets his fingers linger there. “This is a mystery date.”

“A mystery date,” Mickey repeats, snorting, and Raúl feels him tense underneath his fingertips. “A fucking _date_ , huh?”

Raúl runs a hand through this hair, chooses his next words carefully. “Not if you don’t want it to be.” He bites down on his lip, waiting for a snarky response, some little barb thrown at him to push him away and the smile fades slowly from his face, because he thought they were past all this - he needs them to be.

“Sure, whatever,” Mickey huffs, clears his throat. “I mean, yeah. A date - that’s cool.”

“Esto es bueno,” _this is good,_ Raúl says, sighing quietly, relieved. He bumps his elbow against Mickey’s arm, teasing him, trying to ease the tension.“So, just let it happen, si? Why do you need to know so badly?” Mickey snorts, snatches the cigarette from between Raúl’s fingers. He hisses as he takes a drag, long and slow, and Raúl catches his breath in his throat, silence settling and stretching out between them. Surface tension over water.

“Fuck,” Mickey drawls finally, exhaling smoke. He shakes his head, throws the cigarette to the ground, stamping it out and Raúl watches from the corner of his eye; Mickey gnawing on his bottom lip, forehead creased, frustrated. “Look.. I ain’t ever been.. this is... Fuck it. It’s nothing. I don’t care.”

Raúl stops, surprised, but Mickey continues walking, stomping away angrily. “Esperate!” Raúl calls out, _wait,_ and he grabs Mickey by the edge of his t-shirt, pulls him backwards down a narrow alleyway. He won’t let Mickey walk away this time, not tonight, because as far as Raúl is concerned, they game they were playing has been won.

“What haven’t you done, Mickey?” Raúl says quietly, runs a hand underneath Mickey’s tshirt and Mickey glares back at Raúl, eyebrows raised, face set in that expression that somehow says _I don’t care_ and _I care too much,_ all at once. Raúl rubs his thumbs over Mickey’s hips, in that way that seems to relax him, ground him somehow - and he waits for the answer. “You haven’t been on a date before?”

Mickey snorts, scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, eyes darting over Raúl’s face, intense, erratic; the chaos before the calm. “So what?” 

Raúl hums, stepping closer, pressing his lips against Mickey’s neck. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, lips buzzing softly against Mickey’s pulse. He runs his hands around to the small of Mickey’s back, fingers brushing lightly against skin and he feels Mickey’s tension melt away, defenses crumbling.

Mickey exhales loudly, sighing. “Told ya there was someone else, aight,” he says, moving his hand to the back of Raúl’s neck, fingers working through his hair, “back in the day.”

Raúl feels a little pang in his chest, fingers pinching at his heart; distant, dull but unmistakeable, and he nods. Of course he remembers - Mickey’s tattoo, the ex, that first night they fucked. He swallows, shakes away that little twist inside him, because Mickey is opening up to him - the good along with the bad - and it’s what Raúl has wanted.

Mickey sighs again, blinking, holding his eyes closed for a second. “We never really did the dating thing. We were gonna and shit happened and.. we just never got to it.”

Raúl leans forward, presses their foreheads together. “Okay,” he says and he moves a hand to Mickey’s jaw, thumbs at his earlobe. “So this is your first date Mickey. _Our_ first date.”

“Dunno what the fuck I’m doing,” Mickey huffs, a quiet chuckle.

“There are no rules, Mickey,” Raúl says, kissing Mickey once, twice on the lips. “I don’t like rules.”

“Me neither,” Mickey says, and then he laughs from somewhere deep inside his chest, low and loud in a way that Raúl wasn’t expecting and Raúl grins, laughs right along with him.

“Tonight will be a night of firsts.”

“Yeah?” Mickey takes a step back, eyebrows raised, lips curling into cocky half-smile - a dare. “You gonna show me a good time?”

Raúl runs a hand through his hair, licks his lips slowly, deliberately, holding eye contact. He watches as Mickey’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue. “I’ll wine you and dine you,” he says lowly, a laugh tickling in the back of his throat. 

Mickey snorts, pushes Raúl on the shoulder, teasing. “You’re a fucking freak, you know that?”

Raúl shrugs, pushes him back. 

“Just gimme a hint where we’re going,” Mickey reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Ballpark it.”

“One of my favourite places. Another two blocks that way,” Raúl gestures towards the street outside the alley and then lunges towards the road on a whim - two long steps and he is back in the daylight leaving Mickey behind fumbling for his lighter. “Race you!” 

“Ay cabrón!” Mickey yells back, laughing. “You motherfucker!” 

* * *

“You’re pretty fast, Mickey.” Raúl wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, panting as he reaches the alleyway. He stretches his legs, leans against the wall behind him, catching his breath. “Still couldn’t beat me.”

Mickey chuckles, kicking at Raúl’s shoe with his own. “You got fucking giraffe limbs and I’m outta practice,” he laughs, cheeks flushed and Raúl watches his chest rise and fall as he breathes heavy. “What you bring me to some back alley for, huh?” Mickey licks his lips, eyebrows raised, takes a step towards Raúl.

“It’s an art gallery,” Raúl smirks, holding Mickey back with a hand on his chest. He bites down on his lip, tries to chase away the thoughts swimming in his head, because he almost can’t resist Mickey when looks like that; flushed, sweaty, that tongue licking at his lips.

“What?” Mickey snorts, shaking his head, breaking the tension between them. He takes a step backwards, distances himself from the words and Raúl can see him thinking; his silent, frantic protests - a cornered animal. “Listen, I gotta tell ya, I ain’t into that fancy art opening shit, aight. I just.-”

Raúl laughs, interrupting him. “Look, Mickey,” he shrugs, gesturing with a nod around them. “Really look.”

Mickey shrugs, shooting Raúl a glance that says he thinks he’s lost his mind - but still, he stands back, blue eyes scanning the walls and the enclaves of the alley, painted with murals and slogans. Raúl watches as Mickey’s face softens, his disdain fading.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey mutters, eyes meeting Raúl’s. “Graffitti and shit.” 

“Arte callejero,” Raúl nods, then corrects himself, “street art.”

Mickey hums, and there’s silence as he walks around the alleyway, eyeing the paintings suspiciously, chipping tiny flakes off paint off the pieces that have worn and wearing with age. “I seen graffiti back in the US,” he says finally, “but it ain’t nothing like this.”

“This is different. It’s not made for territory or money or fame, but because someone had an idea.” He smiles, wraps an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, casual. “You like it?” 

“It’s fucking vandalism,” Mickey chuckles, looking up at Raúl. “Yeah, it’s cool. So, you’re into this shit, huh?”

Raúl laughs quietly, bites back the words waiting on his lips, because they’re almost there, almost to the place he really wanted Mickey to see. “Yeah I’m into it.”

The walk through the streets, sun setting overhead, winding their way through the maze of alleys and passages as they travel deeper into the Centro Historico. They stop every now and then, Raúl showing Mickey some of his favourite murals, and they laugh whenever Mickey reads the slogans in terrible, broken Spanish. It’s a quiet night, but they’re so close to _the spot,_ that Raúl can barely hear anything but his heart beating in his ears - a, nervous, rhythmic marching band. A quiet voice in the back of his mind whispers that _this was a bad idea_ , that Mickey will be spooked - but Raúl ignores the voice, turns the corner, because it’s always been all or nothing with him; probably always will be.

Warmth rises in Raúl’s cheeks when he sees it finally; the large anatomical heart, shades of scarlet and purple and blue, held tightly within a bloodied fist, and transforming slowly into a flock of birds. It’s a little worn in places, faded slightly since he painted it, but it’s intact - hasn’t been painted over - and the words can still be read, felt.

Mickey laughs loudly behind him, distracted by a mural that says “ _fuck you motherfuckers”_ in four languages, and Raúl stands back, watches Mickey as his eyes work their way over each painting slowly. His gaze falls upon the heart, and Raúl looks away, stays quiet because he always feels a little exposed, kinda raw, the first time he shares something he’s created.

“That is _fucking cool,”_ Mickey drawls, impressed and he nudges Raúl with his elbow. “Ay, come on.. look at this one, man.”

“You like it?” Raúl huffs quietly, wonders whether he should just let this go, say nothing and let his work fade and eventually disappear, unclaimed and anonymous. Mickey’s blue eyes stare back at him and he nods - yes, he likes it. “What if I told you I painted it?” 

Mickey snorts, disbelieving. “Are you fucking serious?” he punches Raúl on the shoulder. “Holy fucking _shit_. When?”

Raúl laughs, shrugging and he pushes Mickey back in return. “A couple of months ago.”

“Since we met..” Mickey mutters and Raúl can tell it’s a statement instead of a question; a realisation, a lightbulb moment in Mickey’s mind.

Raúl nods, running a hand through his hair. “It’s an anatomical heart - _corazón anatómico -_ and the birds are-”

“Yeah, yeah. I know what it is,” Mickey interrupts, frowning, eyes darting between the painting and Raúl and back again, over and over. Mickey mumbles, almost under his breath, the Spanish words painted underneath the heart, but Raúl doesn’t translate them - he lets them hang in the air instead. He remembers the day he painted the piece, how he’d finally felt ready to give himself over to someone else - how he’d felt healed. He wonders if Mickey can see that, if he can see that he’s painted himself on the wall, and he feels his cheeks flushing, because this is the very first time he’s felt vulnerable around Mickey. 

_A night of firsts._

“I like it,” Mickey murmurs, licking his lips, holding eye contact. “I get it.. I get what it’s saying.” 

Raúl stays silent, still, barely breathing, and the space between them feels suddenly tense and tight, like an elastic band being stretched to breaking. He wants nothing more than to feel Mickey’s body against his and to kiss and touch and fuck, but whether he wants to play this game or not, Raúl has shown his cards and it’s Mickey’s move, once again.

“You..” Mickey finally growls, running his tongue over his teeth, breathing heavy. “You’re something else.”

Raúl chuckles lowly, and suddenly he’s being pushed against the wall, Mickey’s lips pressed against his own, hands underneath his shirt, fingers running over the bare skin of his chest, his back. Raúl smiles around the kiss, relieved, and he sucks on Mickey’s lips, sliding his tongue inside his mouth, soft and warm and intimate. Raúl slides his hands around his hips and pulls Mickey towards him, just wanting - needing to feel closer. Mickey’s words roll around in his head, _I get it, I get it_ , as Raúl’s heart beats loud and heavy, feels like it might burst out of his chest as Mickey shows him with his body and his lips and his hands that he gets it - he gets him. 

“Fuck,” Mickey pulls away panting, runs his hand through his hair. “Jesus, fuck.”

“Que?”

“Just.. you. This..” Mickey snorts, gestures in the space between them; _us_. “Whatever the fuck this is.”

Raúl nods, he understands - their connection feels like a force of nature, a gravitational pull. “I like it,” he murmurs, pulls Mickey against him, drops kisses on his lips, his neck. 

“Me too,” Mickey grunts, barely audible, but Raúl feels the words buzzing against his lips. He bites at the skin on Mickey’s neck, feeling the tickle of Mickey’s breath in his hair. 

“So…” Raúl says, sliding his hands under the waistband of Mickey’s jeans, cupping his ass in his hands. “Do you fuck on the first date, Mickey?”

Mickey snorts, takes a step back. “You think I’m easy or something?” he laughs, gives Raúl a playful shove. “Gotta at least buy me dinner first.”

“I plan to. We’re gonna get tamales.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Tamales ain’t a _first_ , man. You live on fucking tamales.”

Raúl grins, roughing up Mickey’s hair with his hand. “You haven’t had _these_ tamales, Mickey. Best tamales in the city.”

“Better be.”

* * *

Mickey whines, a long, breathless moan and he wonders if he could die this way; getting fucked by Raúl on the beach, his arm pinned behind his back, needing desperately to come, but unable to get himself there. They’re hot and sticky and there’s sand stuck on their skin, rubbing sharply between them, and his head is filled with the sound of Raúl’s breath, hot and rasping in his ear and the waves crashing on the sand in front of them. Fuck yeah, he could definitely die this way.

Raúl’s hips are thrusting, rocking against Mickey’s ass from behind him, lips kissing and sucking and biting a trail along Mickey’s shoulder and neck. “I love to fuck you,” Raúl whispers in Mickey’s ear, voice low and breathy, and Mickey moans, tries to agree - oh hell yes, he loves getting fucked by him - but he’s only just keeping himself together, barely a thought in his head.

“How does this feel?” Raúl rasps and he pulls out almost all the way, the tip of his dick pressing against Mickey’s tight ring of muscle. Mickey whines again and he feels the muscle spasm and contract, so fucking ready to be stretched again, to eat up Raúl’s dick as he buries it inside him.

“Feels empty,” Mickey gasps, his voice shaky, sounding needier than he’d like, but holy shit, Raúl knows how to fuck him and he knows how to tease him, make him beg for it. He opens his mouth again and the words spill out, the words he knows Raúl wants to hear- _please, I need this, fuck me, keep going, please Raúl._ He’s begging for Raúl’s dick, begging to be fucked, and he pushes back against his him, trying vainly to feel Raúl inside him again because he’s fucking greedy and hungry and he’s whining like a little bitch, and he couldn’t a single fuck. 

“I love to hear you beg,” Raúl growls and the words cause Mickey’s dick to throb and twitch for reasons he isn’t entirely sure of. Raúl babbles in two languages, breath hot on Mickey’s neck, _you’re amazing, increible, hermoso,_ and then he pushes back inside and they both moan, hot and loud and unable to contain themselves.

Mickey groans and thrusts back towards Raúl, needing to feel him deeper, all the way, and shit, he’s begging again - _more, please, keep going, deeper, I need it -_ and Raúl responds, fucking at his ass with long, hard thrusts until he hits that spot and Mickey wails, keening. 

“There,” Mickey moans, and Raúl bottoms out, hitting the spot again and again and Mickey moans everytime, because he feels so fucking alive, full, complete and he’s burning all over, sharp jolts of pleasure - a livewire - pulsing through him like a current. He looks down at his dick in the moonlight and it’s purple and swollen and glistening with pre-cum and - jesus fucking christ - Raúl hits the spot again, deeper this time, and Mickey watches his dick move on its own, trying to find relief for itself and it’s fucking pathetic and beautiful all at once. 

Raúl moans and gasps behind him, increasing speed, hips bucking fast and loose and reckless and Mickey knows Raúl is getting close, that he’s not going to last much longer. Mickey moves his arm, tries to free it from between their bodies because he needs to come, just finish himself off before it’s too late, but Raúl shifts closer, pins his arm tighter.

“No,” he grunts against Mickey’s neck, “Come for me... on your own. I want you to.” And then he increases speed, hitting the beautiful spot inside Mickey over and over so precisely and so perfectly that Mickey can’t tell where one thrust ends and the other begins.

Mickey whimpers and pants and arches his back, bites down on his lip and Raúl murmurs against his neck, _you feel so good, amazing, you’re so good, so perfect_ and Mickey is shaking, quivering all over from his head to his toes. Pleasure washes over him, and he feels so fucking full and warm that he feels like he’s going to burst.

“Come for me,” Raúl repeats, voice shaky from his own pleasure, “come for me.” Mickey repeats Raúl’s words in his head, _come for me, come for me_ in time with his thrusts _,_ and he’s moaning and panting and Raúl moves his hand to Mickey’s stomach, teasing him, inches away from his dick but refusing to touch. 

Raúl grunts and keens, lips hot and wet on Mickey’s neck and he bites down on Mickey’s shoulder as he’s coming, fucking at Mickey’s ass, hard and fast and erratic. The sound of Raúl losing his mind behind him, the very fucking _idea_ of it, goes straight to Mickey’s aching dick and he arches his back one final time, throws his head back and he comes like a man possessed. He thrusts pointlessly at the air in front of him, milking himself, shaking and gasping until he is spent.

Mickey hisses as Raúl removes himself from inside him, and he reaches back, pulling Raúl’s arm around him. Raúl shuffles forward towards him, wraps his arms and legs around Mickey until they’re pressed together, a tangled mess of sweaty limbs on the sand as they catch their breath.

“Each time is better than the last,” Raúl murmurs in Mickey’s ear, rubbing his fingers over his stomach, slow and deliberate, intimate.

Mickey nods, humming in agreement and rolls over to face Raúl, needs to see him. He slots their legs together, and he shivers, feels that pleasant bubble in his chest - the feeling that used to scare him a few months ago, that he’s slowly getting used to. Raúl licks his lips, leans forward and they kiss, slow and kinda sloppy, but nice, fingers ghosting over bare skin, and Raúl’s nose rings rub against Mickey’s cheek, tickling him.

“Ay, tonight was cool,” Mickey says against Raúl’s lips. “The date or whatever. I had a good time.”

Raúl nods, kisses him on the lips one more time. “Yo también. I like showing you things,” he grins, raises an eyebrow. “You ever fucked on the beach before?”

“That was definitely a fucking first, man,” Mickey chuckles, pinches at Raúl’s ribs, teasing. “Pretty sure I got sand up my ass.”

Raúl laughs quietly, leaning forward, lips pressed against the pulse in Mickey’s neck. “Maybe I’ll kiss it better later,” he says lowly, almost growling.

Mickey exhales quickly, his tired dick twitching uselessly between his legs. He needs more time, but he leans forward anyway, parting Raúl’s lips with his tongue and he kisses him, fingers running along Raúl’s jaw and his neck. This guy. Mickey can’t fucking help himself, can’t get enough.

Raúl pulls away, panting, thumbing at Mickey’s earlobe and Mickey shivers - he likes that. “So do I get to take you on a second date?” Raúl asks, and he runs a finger over Mickey’s chest. “Because next time I want to fuck you in the water.”

“Ay, this ain’t some kinda gay rom-com movie we got going on here,” Mickey laughs, laying a playing fist on Raúl’s shoulder. “I ain’t doing that shit.”

Raúl chuckles, licking his lips. “Don’t write it off, Mickey,” he says, reaching down to squeeze Mickey’s ass cheeks. “You might enjoy it.”

Mickey hums, feels the edges of his lips curling up into a grin. “Maybe.”

* * *

“Tu novio es encantador, Mickey,” _your boyfriend is lovely,_ Sofia whispers in Mickey’s ear, shuffling past him on the way to the bar. “Bien hecho.” _Well done._

Mickey rolls his eyes, opens his mouth out of habit - denial waiting on his lips; _shut the fuck up, he’s not my fucking boyfriend, we’re just friends._ But the words won’t come, because there’s that feeling in his stomach again, that annoying flutter that is starting to feel pretty fucking good, telling him he does really like the sound of the words, likes them alot. 

_Boyfriend._

He smirks, shrugging, and mutters a quiet, _yeah_ , and Sofia joins Raúl at the bar ordering drinks. 

Mickey looks up, and Aleja is watching him, staring from her seat opposite him in the booth. He sighs and sucks his lips between his teeth. He’s pretty buzzed right now, kinda drunk, but he still feels awkward, the way she’s looking at him, suspicious almost. If he’d had any say in this night at all, he’d be back at his place with Raúl, probably getting high and watching telenovelas, or on another date like their first the other day - just the two of them. But Raúl had insisted they go out drinking after work with Aleja, and Sofia had tagged along because - well, Mickey isn’t really sure why - probably because they’re friends, and this is the kind of thing he does now; works, watches Raúl’s gigs, goes out drinking with friends. It’s so far removed from his life back in Chicago, it’s actually kinda funny.

Mickey chuckles quietly to himself, and sculls the last of his beer, turning the empty bottle around in his fingers when he’s done.

“So..” Aleja says from across the table, eyes fixed on Mickey, unblinking. “You and Raúl.”

Mickey inhales quickly, startled from his own thoughts, raises an eyebrow. “What about it?”

Aleja folds her arms across her chest, shrugging, cool and nonchalant. “You like Raúl?” she asks, and Mickey can see she’s trying her best to be intimidating, territorial.

Mickey snorts, lips curling into a sneer and he nods, because he knows what is happening, knows exactly what this conversation is about. “Yes, I fucking like Raúl.”

“Bueno. Because he really likes you.”

“This the bit where you ask me my intentions or some shit?” Mickey leans back in the booth, folds his arms, matching Aleja.

Aleja shakes her head, unfazed by Mickey’s sarcasm, and he thinks he’d probably be impressed by the balls on this chick, if he wasn’t so fucking annoyed. “If Raúl likes you, then I like you,” she smiles sweetly. “I’ll be the best friend you ever had. But he’s been through so much and if you hurt him..”

“Yeah yeah,” Mickey interrupts, a heaviness sinking in his gut. He’s irritated, fed up with this conversation. “I ain’t gonna hurt him, aight. You can call off the fucking dogs.”

“Bueno,” Aleja nods, dropping the interrogation act, starts making conversation instead, but Mickey isn’t listening, isn’t paying any attention at all because his own words are ringing in his ears.

_I ain’t gonna hurt him._

He shudders, scraping his teeth against the inside of his cheek. The words sound hollow, like bullshit. Because it’s suddenly fucking hit him - of course he’s going to hurt Raúl. He’s a fugitive, and he’s been lying to the guy since the moment he met him; lying about his name, where he’s from, how he ended up in goddamn Mexico. 

Lying to himself.

Mickey rubs his hand over his forehead, feels fucking nauseous. 

“Tequila time!” Raúl laughs, smiling like he always does, as he arrives back at at the table with Sofia. They divide the drinks between the four of them and Raúl slides back into the booth, rests his a hand on Mickey’s thigh under the table. A few minutes ago, before Aleja got to him, Mickey would have welcomed the contact, felt that tickle in his gut. But now, there’s a brick sitting in his stomach, heavy, ugly - and he feels guilty, like a fucking fraud. Because that’s exactly what he is, when it’s all said and done. He’s a fugitive, a liar.

Mickey takes a few deep breaths, slow and measured, trying to calm himself down. He takes his tequila shots and slams all four of them back like water, to quiet the panicked buzzing inside his head. It doesn’t work and the conversation barrels on around him, while he remains silent, lost in that fucking talk with Aleja. 

_He really likes you. He’s been through so much._

Fuck.

“Estás bien? _Are you okay_ , Raúl asks, hand moving from Mickey’s thigh to his shoulder, fingers brushing against Mickey’s neck. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just tired,” Mickey mutters, and he leans into Raúl’s touch in spite of himself. Shit- he has no willpower when it comes to this guy - none. He’s such a fucking asshole.

“Wanna go back to your place?” Raúl murmurs in his ear, voice low, sexy.

“Probably better if.. “ Mickey pauses, blinking, feels dizzy all of a sudden. He frowns, chases his thoughts as they swirl in his mind, “Better if we ain’t together tonight. I don’t.. don’t feel real good.”

“Oh,” Raúl nods, sounds disappointed. “Si, we can do that.”

They say goodbye to Sofia and Aleja and head out onto the street. The air is hot and humid outside, and the sickness roiling in Mickey’s stomach intensifies, becomes a violent, churning nausea. 

“You wanna walk?” Raúl asks, sliding a hand around to the small of Mickey’s back, touching him there in that way that he loves. “Or share a cab?

His ears are ringing and he’s spinning, or maybe it’s the rest of the world that won’t stop goddamn moving - he can’t tell; all he knows is that he feels bad, really fucking terrible. Mickey opens his mouth to speak, moans instead, and the ground beneath his feet seems to disappear. He hears Raúl, yelling his name - shit, he sounds worried - and then Mickey feels himself falling, fading to black. 

* * *

“Buenos día, Mickey,” _Good morning,_ Raúl murmurs, lips humming against Mickey’s shoulder. 

“The fuck happened?” Mickey blinks, head throbbing as he rolls onto his back, Raúl’s arm draped across his stomach. He shifts slowly, trying to get comfortable and he moans. Everything hurts.

Raúl chuckles, grinning. “You were so drunk last night, you passed out in the street. I had to bring you home,” he says, fingers rubbing circles over Mickey’s chest. “Do you remember?”

Mickey grunts and shakes his head, no.

“Listen, Mickey,” Raúl clears his throat, and Mickey hears a waver in his voice, a hint of uncertainty. “I know you wanted to sleep apart last night, but when we got back here you wanted me to stay, so I-”

Mickey snorts, interrupting. “What the fuck did I wanna sleep alone for?” He sits up in bed, forehead creased into a frown, chasing the loose threads of memories of the night before. His mind is broken, disconnected and messy, but something still feels off. “Shit, I gotta pee like a racehorse.”

Mickey takes a piss and then cleans his teeth, stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, a heavy feeling gnawing in his gut. The feeling is ominous, familiar; a strange sense that something is about to go bad - turn to shit - and it reminds him of Chicago. He curses his reflection in the mirror, tells himself he can’t have done anything too bad, since Raúl is still with him, still happy and laughing, and he takes a few deep breaths, returns to his bedroom.

“Did I do anything else last night?” Mickey asks, climbing back into bed, shuffling down under the covers next to Raúl. “Can’t remember shit.”

“Nothing else,” Raúl shakes his head, that sparkle appearing behind his eyes. “But you did get a tattoo of Seagal on your ass.”

“No fucking way!” Mickey cries out, grabbing at his butt, patting the cheeks gingerly. “No I fucking didn’t! Did I?” 

Raúl laughs, and Mickey punches his arm, laughing right along with him, relieved. “You really think I’d let you mark that beautiful ass?” Raúl says, cupping Mickey’s cheeks in his hands, pulling him closer. He drops kisses on Mickey’s lips, rubs their noses together. “It’s already perfect.”

“You can fucking talk,” Mickey chuckles, moving quickly to straddle Raúl. “You got more tattoos than you can fucking count.”

“They’re all stories I want to remember.”

Mickey hums quietly, sighs as the gnawing feeling resurfaces in his stomach. He tries to put it out of his mind, distract himself. He traces the outline of the tattoos on Raúl’s shoulder, absently. “You regret any?”

“Nope,” Raúl shakes his head, confident and matter of fact. “Choose one and I’ll tell you about it.”

“Aight.” Mickey nods, eyeing the designs on Raúl’s arms and chest; the words in English and Spanish, the woman’s face, the sailboat, the feather - all of them illustrations in a book he hasn’t learned to read yet. He runs his finger over some script on Raúl’s right arm. “That one.”

Raúl bites down on his bottom lip, looking away - silent for a few seconds, before he nods and sits up, pulling Mickey against his chest. “My previous boyfriend, Diego - he died three years ago,” he straightens his arm, allowing Mickey a closer look. “These are lyrics to his favourite song.” 

The weight settles heavy in Mickey’s stomach like a rock thrown into water, and he stares at the tattoo, tries to read the lyrics for himself. But he can’t focus, can’t think, because the gnawing feeling in his gut has given way to an ugly, churning ache. Something is wrong. Something is _definitely_ wrong. “That’s… that’s fucked up,” he stammers finally, his voice and words feeling hollow, forced. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay now,” Raúl shrugs, kisses Mickey on the lips, “I went through some stuff for a while, though.”

Mickey nods quickly, barely responding because his mind is filling with cryptic flashes of the night before; puzzle pieces being dropped in front of him, slowly forming a picture that makes him feel ill.

_He really likes you. He’s been through so much._

Holy shit, Mickey remembers now; the conversation with Aleja at the bar, her warning him not to hurt Raúl, the epiphany he should have had months ago - that he’s living fifty fucking lies at once and it will only end in pain for the pair of them. He should never have invited Raúl back to his house that first time; they could’ve gone their separate ways - ended everything before they’d even truly started. A bandaid ripped right off in one movement; a short, sharp sting, but minimal fucking damage.

 _Fuck._

“Mickey, you’re quiet,” Raúl says lowly, wrapping his arms around him, “I’m not hung up on Diego, okay? It was tough for a while, but.. you keep going, you know?”

Mickey nods. He knows all about that; life goes on and shit stops hurting in time. He closes his eyes, sees Raúl’s street art - the fist and the heart and the birds - and it’s completely fucking obvious now that Raúl used the art to show him that he’s waded through the mud and whatever this thing is between them, Raúl is ready for it - he’s in. 

And shit, Mickey is ready for it too. He really, really fucking likes Raúl. 

But they’re fucked. Everything is fucked.

“I gotta tell you something,” Mickey says finally, and he rests his forehead against Raúl’s, a frustrated, primal groan escaping his lips. He knows he sounds ridiculous, but it’s the least of his problems - he couldn’t care less.

Raúl runs his fingers over Mickey’s collarbones, and he nods. ”Dime, por favor.” _Please, tell me._

Mickey curses under his breath, regretting the words before he’s even said them. There’s no right way to say this - he may was well get straight to the fucking point. “I’m a fugitive,” he says lamely, exhaling a long, slow breath and then he chuckles, because it’s the first time he’s ever actually said the words out loud and they somehow sound both horrifying and ridiculous at the same time.

“The Yago thing, again, Mickey?” Raúl rolls his eyes, throws his head back and laughs. “I think you’re the one with a crush on Yago!”

Mickey blinks slowly, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, and he considers going along with the joke, laughing about it with Raúl and then pretending the conversation never happened. “This ain’t a joke,” he mutters, stares down at his palms. “Got thrown in the can back in the US. Did about a year, then escaped.”

Raúl is silent, eyebrows knotted into a frown, brown eyes searching Mickey’s blue. Mickey can see Raúl’s mind working, the thoughts ticking over in his head. “Please tell me you aren’t serious,” Raúl says finally and he pauses, waits for Mickey to respond. “Mickey, please.”

Mickey runs a hand over his forehead, through his hair and he shakes his head slowly. “I’m very fucking serious.”

Raúl moves quickly, recoiling, untangling his body from Mickey’s as he sits on the edge of the bed. “What the fuck?” he says slowly, pointedly. “You were sent to prison? What for?”

Mickey sighs, heart beating loud and heavy in his ears. He looks at Raúl, arms folded over his chest, black hair hanging around his face, a darkness behind his eyes that Mickey hasn’t seen before. “Attempted murder.”

“Fuck. Mierda. Válgame díos.” Raúl leaps off the bed, pacing, hands running through his hair, tucking strands behind his ears. “Are they looking for you? The police?”

“Back in the US, yeah,” Mickey sighs, shrugging. “Don’t seem to be any heat on me down here.”

Raúl continues to pace, muttering a stream of Spanish that Mickey can’t understand, but he doesn’t need to be bilingual to know that Raúl is freaking out, panicking. And shit, Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to do about it, what he could possibly say to fix this mess. “I didn’t do it,” he adds, a bitter laugh caught in his throat, because he doesn’t think for a second that Raúl will believe that. Prison is full of innocent men - all that shit. “Wasn’t trying to kill the bitch like they said. I drugged her, just wanted to teach her a lesson.”

Raúl finally stops pacing, takes a few deep breaths, calming himself down. His brown eyes are glassy, sad, and the lump that Mickey hasn’t felt in months, rises in his throat, a bitter old enemy. “Mickey, I.. I..” Raúl’s voice cracks and he pinches at the bridge of his nose. “This is… I wasn’t expecting this at all. I need to think.”

“I figured,” Mickey mutters. The brick in his stomach grows heavier and he’s thinking of Chicago again, because everything is turning to shit once more, but this time with better weather. He knows this current mess actually is his fault, but he isn’t sure whether that makes him feel better or worse. All he knows is he hates himself for hurting Raúl like this. “We’re finished,” he breathes, quiet, unable to look Raúl in the eyes.”I get it.”

“Please,” Raúl says quietly, as he pulls on his clothes. “I can’t.. I can’t answer that now. I really like you Mickey. I thought we we starting to know each other and I just.. I haven’t felt..”

Raúl’s words twist in Mickey’s gut and that tight, stabbing feeling rises in his chest - he can’t let Raúl walk away thinking what they had was a lie. He has to say something, anything. “Ay, come on. Listen,” he says and he’s on his feet, taking steps towards Raúl. He rubs his hands on Raúl’s forearms, just needing to touch him one last time, and Raúl lets him, doesn’t flinch. “This,” Mickey gestures between the two of them - _us, “_ this is real.” 

“I know,” Raúl nods, and they look at each other, goodbyes and apologies left unspoken in the space between them. “I know.”

Mickey nods, stepping away, letting Raúl continue getting dressed and he wonders if he’ll ever see the guy again. He opens his mouth to ask, but the words stick in his throat. He’s already asked that question too many fucking times in his life, and the answer was always _yes_ , followed by _goodbye_ and he can’t let himself have that kind of hope again. It’s probably better if he just doesn’t know.

“I need to get my head around this, Mickey,” Raúl says, as if reading Mickey’s mind. “I need time.”

Mickey nods and they exchange one last glance before Raúl leaves, the front door banging closed behind him. 

“Fuck,” Mickey screams to his empty bedroom, and he palms at his eyes, tries to dull the sharp sting that taunts him from behind his eyelids. 

_I need time._

Raúl’s voice is still fresh in Mickey’s ears and he wonders how much time someone actually needs to come to terms with the fact their new boyfriend is a fucking fugitive. A day? A week? Six months? And then Mickey feels like kicking his own ass because he’s allowing himself hope; and if life has taught him anything at all, it’s that hope will suck you in and then fuck you over six ways to Sunday.

Raúl is gone - it’s that simple. What they had was fun - shit, it was _really fucking good_ \- while it lasted, but they’re finished. Done. Time isn’t going to do shit to sort out Raúl’s head in Mickey’s favour and the sooner he comes to terms with that, the better. 

Mickey walks out to the kitchen, opens up the fridge - he needs a fucking drink. The fridge is empty save for a tub of butter and vegetables for that useless goddamn goat and Mickey curses under his breath, sadness and disappointment giving way to rage. He picks up an empty beer bottle from the table and hurls it against the living room wall. The bottle smashes, taking paint off the wall and Mickey laughs; a bitter, angry laugh.

Fucked for life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thanks for reading and commenting!! I love hearing what you think and to know people are reading!
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> Okay, some notes about this chapter: I know it ended on a cliff hanger and Mickey is unhappy. Please trust how I am telling this story because I want to make it as realistic as possible (as realistic as the fugitive storyline allows). I hate Mickey being unhappy too, but it really makes sense to me that Mickey tells Raúl and Raúl reacts the way he does. By telling him, we can see that Mickey really trusts Raúl, because he didn't think for a second about Raúl ratting him out. The next chapter will feature alot of Raúl where we learn more about his life and how he's feeling about Mickey's secret.
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> I'm already writing the next chapter so there won't be a huuuuge wait like there was between chapter 11 and chapter 12 (I went to Europe for a month and didn't have time to write.)


	13. El Corazón Siempre Gana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In chapter 12, Mickey and Raúl went on their first real date and Mickey begrudgingly told Raúl he's a fugitive.
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> Chapter 13  
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> Raúl deals with Mickey's secret in his own way
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> Some notes;  
> * Aba is a Spanish nickname for abuela, similar to how gran is a shortened version of grandma in English.  
> ** Chavella is a Mexican nickname for Isabella

Mickey kicks a can on the footpath in front of him, laughing bitterly as it clatters into the gutter. A woman passes him, shakes her head and spits angry words at him in Spanish and Mickey sneers, mutters under his breath telling her to shut the fuck up. Stupid fucking bitch. He turns the corner, and the bar where Raúl is playing is right there in front of him, music pumping low and rhythmic through the walls, people shuffling in and out of the entrance. 

He leans up against a lamp post, finishing his cigarette. Sure, he’s gone out of his way to get here, but it’s not like he’s chasing after Raúl or anything - he isn’t. Fuck that. But it’s been almost a week since Raúl looked at him with that darkness behind his eyes - sadness, disappointment, whatever the hell it was - and said he needed time to think, and Mickey just needs to know that the guy is okay. Shit, he’s not even going to go into the bar; he’ll just stick his head inside the door, catch him on stage for a minute, then leave. No one will know he was even there. 

He takes one last drag of his cigarette, and makes his way to the entrance, eyes falling upon the poster taped to the window - it’s the flyer Raúl made on his laptop and had printed at the copy store near Mickey’s house. But Raúl’s name is crossed out; another Mexican name that Mickey has never heard of, written underneath it.

“What the fuck?” he drawls out loud, and a staff member looks up from wiping down one of the tables. The guy looks familiar, someone Mickey has seen Raúl talking to before. “Ain’t Raúl Zamora meant to be playing here tonight?” Mickey nods towards the poster, folds his arms over his chest.

The guy blinks, and Mickey can almost see him translating his words into English. “No. Nada. Cancelled show,” he says. Mickey stares at him, eyebrows raised, withering and impatient. “He’s not here. Left the city,” the guy shrugs.

Mickey snorts, takes a few steps back, exhaling sharply. _He’s not here. Left the city._ Every hair on his body stands up on end, that sick, sinking feeling landing like a boulder in his gut. “Well? When’s he coming back?” he snaps, condescending, rude, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He just wants to know where Raúl is.

“Cancelled this week and next. That’s all he was booked for,” the guy goes back to wiping down tables, and Mickey wants nothing more than to kick his ass for his indifference. 

“Thanks genius,” Mickey snarls, “you’re real fucking helpful.” He turns his back to the guy, pinches the bridge of his nose, reeling. 

_He’s not here. Left the city._

Fuck. 

The boulder in his stomach sinks further, becomes a dull ache and he’s sweating in the warm air, cold beads peppering his skin. So that’s it, then. Raúl has fucked off - just like that. They’re done. He snorts at himself, disgusted. Of _course_ they’re fucking done. They were done as soon as those goddamn words left Mickey’s mouth a week ago. He knew that, and yet in that time he somehow still let a tiny optimistic part of himself bounce back, like a hyperactive fucking puppy that doesn’t know when to quit, holding onto the vague hope that Raúl would choose him. Well, that was wishful fucking thinking - because Raúl has left town and Mickey is standing in the goddamn gutter, feeling that hopeful part of himself withering and dying yet again, one laugh away from kicking someone’s ass. 

Mickey snorts again, shaking his head and he starts walking, rage propelling him forward. He stomps angrily, quickly, passing street vendors, bars and other pedestrians in a blur. But he’s not watching where he puts his foot and he trips on a bottle, lunges forward awkwardly. A group of teenage boys laugh at him from across the road, and he picks up the bottle, hurling it through the air in their direction.

“Pinche cabrons!” he screams, as the bottle smashes on the cement in front of the teenagers, the shrill, sharp sound of broken glass bringing pedestrians to a standstill. He sneers as the boys dash towards him, screaming curses and threats at him in Spanish, their voices hollow and echoing, bouncing off the walls of the buildings on either side of the street. Mickey laughs hoarsely, taking off down an alley, sprinting, knocking bins behind him as he runs. His gut still aches with hopelessness, despair, whatever it is, and shit - he feels like he’s back in the goddamn Southside. Same old shit, different fucking country.

Fuck Raúl. Fuck this fugitive shit. Fuck everything.

* * *

Raúl turns his phone over in his hand, reads the unsent message to Mickey for the fifth, probably the sixth time. The cursor blinks back, impatient, daring him to hit send, but he doubts himself, deletes the message instead. For the first time he can recall, he doesn’t know what to say to Mickey, doesn’t even really know how he feels. He should probably feel angry at him, betrayed. But he understands why Mickey kept his secret from him. He just wishes that he hadn’t - that there was no secret to keep.

He shudders, fingers digging into his palm, the shaky nervous feeling he’s grown used to these last few days stewing in his chest. Everything he and Mickey have shared these past months - getting to know each other, growing closer, falling for one another - feels imagined, a vague memory he can’t hold onto; snow melting in his fingers.

_I’m a fugitive._

Mickey’s words were simple, emotionless, but they hit Raúl in the heart and gut, because he’d heard the truth lingering behind them; _you thought you knew me, but I was still hiding._ And now, despite all the time they spent together, that sarcastic, blue eyed gringo feels more like a mystery than a lover. An unread book.

_Attempted murder._

Raúl snorts, laughs wryly. He’d expected Mickey to have broken into a house, stolen a car, maybe robbed a bank ,at worst - but the truth was jarring, a cold reality he could never have prepared for. The sensible thing would be to walk away now; go back to the city, break up with Mickey properly and try to forget he fell hopelessly head first for an attempted murderer, a United States fugitive. Self preservation, knowing when to cut and run - it’s not romantic, but it’s the logical thing to do.

He rubs his fingers over his arm, thinks about the way Mickey knits their bodies together in bed, the way he touches him when he’s he thinks Raúl is asleep - always soft, gentle, cautious almost - and Raúl believes Mickey when he says he didn’t intend to kill anyone. There must be more to the story - there has to be - because Raúl has looked into Mickey’s eyes, seen past the facade, seen _him_. He may not know the details, the facts of Mickey’s life - shit, maybe he doesn’t even know his actual name - but he knows that Mickey can be sweet, he’s felt that softness, that connection between them that can’t be explained by logic or reason, yet so real he can almost touch it. 

He sighs loudly, takes a few deep breaths and sinks back against abuela’s screen door, watching the sunset as it paints the sky shades of hot pink and orange and lilac, turning the trees and mountains into silhouettes against the horizon. After that morning a week ago, he’d just needed to go someplace familiar - no surprises, no secrets - and try to make sense of the bomb that Mickey dropped in his lap. The mountain air is humid and fresh and it smells like grass after the rain and memories of him and Isabella as kids; climbing trees and feeding donkeys and catching frogs in the creek - it’s exactly what he needed. It feels good to be home.

There’s a rattle from the front gate, the crunch of shoes against gravel and Raúl looks up alert, squinting, trying to focus his eyes against the dark. The shadowy figure of his sister draws closer and he relaxes again, shuffles on the steps, making room for her to sit down. 

“Hola,” Isabella says, plopping down on the step next to him. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Hey Chavella,” Raúl says, ruffling the hair on top of his sister’s head. “You’ve been working alot. I’ve barely seen you. Do you need money? I can send you more..”

“We’re good, Raúl. Save some money for yourself,” Isabella shakes her head, leans back against the concrete, and she laughs. “The restaurant is understaffed because all the young people are bored and are moving to the city.”

Raúl chuckles quietly, nods. “Sorry for leaving,” he grins, only half-serious, and he fumbles around in his pocket for his weed and lighter - needs something to relax him a little, push Mickey out of his mind for a few hours. He lights up a joint, offers it to Isabella. 

“What the fuck, Raúl!” Isabella hisses, looks around cautiously, peering through the screen door to the inside of the house.

Raúl exhales slowly, smoke forming a silvery cloud. “It’s fine,” he laughs, “Aba went to bed hours ago.” 

Isabella shrugs, hums quietly and takes a drag of the joint. “Woah, shit!” she sputters, laughing hoarsely, “You’ve always got the best weed.”

“City weed, Chavella,” Raúl nods, grinning. “It’s just better.”

“Oh, _please_. You know it comes from around here,” Isabella rolls her eyes, shoves Raúl on the shoulder, teasing him, and Raúl laughs, nudges her back in return. “Hey, I meant to tell you - the doctor has Aba on some new medication for that cough.”

Raúl takes another hit from the joint, thinking. “She’s okay though, right?” he says, “She seems really good.”

Isabella nods. “She is, but it really needs to be cleared up. Doctor Juarez thinks this medication will get rid of the cough permanently.”

“Okay. That’s good,” Raúl nods, swallows the pang of guilt that burns in his chest. He really should make it back home more often. “If you need me.. if you need anything, let me know.”

Isabella nods again, and they’re silent; sweet, comfortable silence, a cool breeze rustling past them cutting through the heat, wind chimes ringing out in the distance. Raúl feels himself relaxing finally, the spinning in his mind whirring to a stop, growing cloudy with weed. 

“You’ve been quiet since you got here, Raúl,” Isabella says absently, “is everything okay?”

Raúl groans, the carousel of thoughts starting again in his head. “It’s nothing,” he runs a hand through his hair, palms at his forehead. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

“You know you can always talk to me,” Isabella knocks their legs together, and Raúl’s phone slips from his fingers, clatters down onto the cement steps below. “Shit! Sorry,” she says, leaning forward to fetch Raúl’s phone, the screen lit up in her hand, Mickey’s message history luminant and glowing in the dark.

Raúl startles, feels his cheeks flushing and his sister’s eyes stealing cautious glances at his phone. His heart beats hard in his chest and he snatches the phone from her hand, stuffs it back in his pocket before she starts asking questions.

“Mickey, huh? Who is Mickey?” She asks, voice childish, teasing and Raúl runs both hands through his hair in frustration. Too late. “That’s a gringo name, isn’t it? A boy?”

Raúl bites down on his lip, wonders how to even begin answering. “He’s my boyf-... a guy I’ve..” he stammers awkwardly, faltering over the words. _Who_ is _Mickey?_ Truth, lies; he can’t tell the difference anymore. He sighs, “Yeah he’s a gringo.”

“Raúl!” his sisters squeals, and a neighbour’s dog starts yapping in the distance. “You met someone? When?”

“About five months ago,” Raúl rubs his eyes, groaning low and quiet - he always knows when his sister is slowly taking control of a conversation. “I don’t want to talk-”

“Five months!” Isabella shrieks, slaps at Raúl’s leg. “You didn’t say a _thing!_ Is it serious?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Do you love him?”

Raúl huffs sharply, a pleasant shiver rippling over his skin. He wants to hold onto the feeling but he can’t think about _that_ right now, can’t let his heart wander down that path. He runs a sweaty hand through his hair, heart pounding in his chest and his stomach turns and flips and flutters in the way he’d really rather ignore. He takes a long drag of the joint, lets it burn right down to his fingertips.“Chavella, _please_ ,” he says finally, “I can’t.. I don’t want to talk about this.” 

“Sorry,” Isabella says quietly, kicking at a rock with her shoe. “I just thought you would tell me if something big happened in your life..” 

Raúl pauses, tries to forget how he’d imagined bringing Mickey with him on his next trip home, introducing him to Isabella and aba. His words roll around in his head, answers resting somewhere between truth and lies. “Things are messy, Chavella,” he rests his head against Isabella’s, breathes deeply, “I want to be with him… I just.. I don’t know if it’s going to work out.”

“You don’t know if it’s going to work out?” Isabella repeats, scoffing loudly. “When have you _ever_ in your life let that stop you?” 

“I know,” Raúl nods, laughs a little, heat pooling in his cheeks. He feels embarrassed, caught out, because it’s true; he’s always relied on gut feelings, instinct, confident in his belief that _everything will work out fine_. But he’s beginning to question if gut feelings are enough, maybe sometimes they’re even wrong.

Isabella shifts, turns to face him, hands on his shoulders. “Listen, Raúl. You couldn’t have known how things would end with Diego,” she says softly, brown eyes earnest, holding fast against his own. “But would you trade what you had together?”

Raúl shakes his head, no, and Isabella smiles, moves to lean back against the step. He stares out into the darkness, eyes unfocused, mind foggy with weed. “It’s a battle between my head and my heart,” he hears himself say.

Isabella nods, chuckles quietly. “Does Mickey make you happy?”

Raúl smiles, doesn’t need to think about the answer. “Yes,” he says, his gut feelings - his _heart -_ speaking for him this time. 

Isabella nods, silence falling between them. “I’m tired and I’m high, Raúl,” she says finally, “I’m sorry, but I really need to go to bed.”

“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing her shoulders, “Thanks for listening, Chavella. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The screen door rattles closed behind him and he’s alone again. He pulls his phone from his pocket and thinks again about texting Mickey. He looks at the last message he received from Mickey, the day after he’d told Raúl his secret. _I’m sorry,_ it reads, and Raúl feels an ache in his gut, a sadness. He’s sorry too; for leaving Mickey the way he did, for needing time alone while he fights this war with himself. 

The screen stares back at him and he battles the urge to pack up everything tonight and drive back to the city, to Mickey. It’s tempting - the thought of being together again, retreating back inside the bubble of their new relationship and forgetting the rest of the world exists. But it really wouldn’t be fair to show up there now, not when he hasn’t reached a resolution in his head. 

Raúl sighs, closes his eyes and slides his phone back into his pocket. 

* * *

“I found it in the attic, Raúl,” Aba says quietly, sipping at her horchata. “Your mother used to play it when she lived here. It’s yours now.”

Raúl runs his fingers over the guitar - the wood is old and brittle under his skin, scratches etched into the fretboard. Memories he’ll never know carved into the surface like a secret language. A shiver travels over him. “Thanks, aba,” he smiles, strums quietly at the strings. It’s out of tune, rusted in parts, but only needs some minor improvements, some care and love. “I can fix it up. It will be good as new.”

“Your mother played guitar so well,” Aba says, and Raúl nods, doesn’t have the heart to tell Aba he already knows. He lets her share the memory like it’s the first time instead. “She had a head full of dreams and a beautiful singing voice. Just like you, Raúl.”

Raúl smiles, a warm feeling swelling in his chest as he thinks about his mother; a woman he hardly knew, barely even remembers, but still part of him - if only in the details. “I wish I remembered more of the songs she would sing to us.”

“It is better that you don’t remember, Raúl. Memories are painful,” Aba says lowly, solemn. She reaches out and takes Raúl’s hand in her own, squeezes it. “Everyday I remember and I regret.”

“Aba, no,” Raúl frowns, his words catching in his throat and he feels the pinch in his heart that his mother’s memory always brings - that sting remaining even as the memories of her fade. He squeezes Aba’s hand in return, watching as her eyes become glazed, red-rimmed, and the stinging in his heart becomes anger towards his mother all over again. “It wasn’t your fault mama left. It _wasn’t._ ”

Aba is silent for a minute, sadness creeping over her face like a shadow, darkness settling behind damp eyes. “But I didn’t tell you why she left, Raúl,” she says finally, and Raúl sits up, curious. They’ve never talked much about why their mother ran away, and he and Isabella haven’t asked, never wanting to risk upsetting Aba. “She met your papa when she was seventeen. He was older - too old for her - and I didn’t like it,” Aba pauses, her breath rattling noisily in her chest. She coughs, takes another sip of horchata before continuing, voice shaky. “I forbid her to see your papa. I punished her and we argued everyday. But she was already in love. She was never going to listen to me or anybody else.”

“She chose to leave, aba,” Raúl says quickly, and he pauses, trying to disguise the anger in his voice. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Aba laughs wryly, pats Raúl on the back of his hand. “I tried to stand in the way of her heart, Raúl,” she says absently, wistful. “I tried to keep her from the person who made her happiest.”

Raúl huffs, goosebumps creeping over his skin. “You didn’t mean to..” his voice falters, Aba’s words swirling in his head; _the person who made her happiest._ He thinks of Mickey; how when they’re together everything makes sense, how the rest of the world seems to melt away. He takes a breath, focuses on the present, on Aba. “You just wanted to protect her. It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t even know I had grandchildren until she died.”

“Aba,” Raúl’s voice cracks. The weight of her words are heavy and he wishes he knew what to say, but his throat is tight and stinging and his own words won’t come. He wraps both hands around Aba’s, offers that physical connection instead. “You were there for us when we needed you most,” he says finally.

Aba nods quickly, shifting in her chair and Raúl can see her becoming composed again, steeling herself. “I can’t change what happened with your mama, but I won’t make the same mistake with her babies,” she pauses, looks up into Raúl’s eyes, earnest. “You love men, or you love women - it doesn’t matter to me as long as you are happy.”

“I know, aba,” Raúl exhales shakily, pride and love and gratitude for this tiny woman chasing away the anger that his mother’s memory had awoken. He may never forgive her for leaving Aba the way she did, but he understands her more now; that feeling of being so drawn to another person, the need to be around them. “I am happy,” he says, lips curling into a slow smile. “Isabella and I are happy.”

Aba smiles, cups Raúl’s cheek in her hand. “The heart always wins,” she says calmly, standing to take her cup to the kitchen. “This is what your mother taught me. The heart always wins.”

* * *

Mickey shakes his head, watches his game character die on his tv in front of him, and throws the nintendo controller onto the coffee table in disgust. He reaches for his bottle of tequila instead, swills a large gulp around in his mouth, then swallows it down, shivering \ as the alcohol burns its way over his throat into his stomach, warming him from the inside out. 

The music from the nintendo continues on, repeating itself, one mind-numbing loop after another, and he picks up one of his shoes and throws it at the console, silencing it. It’s probably broken now but Mickey couldn’t care less - it’s boring playing without Raúl anyway; fucking pathetic, if he’s honest.

He sighs, stares up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, and considers heading out to the dodgy end of town - the place he used to spend alot of time, before he met Raúl - and letting some random fuck him into a wall. He closes his eyes, sees Raúl’s face behind his lids - the freckles dusted over his nose, that playfulness flickering behind his eyes, imagines his teeth biting down on his bottom lip - and he feels sick. He can’t do it. Raúl has fucking ruined him.

There’s a knock on Mickey’s front door and he groans because it’s probably Sofia and he’s really not in the mood for her right now. She has an infuriating knack - she calls it a skill - of showing up, enthusiastic and happy and goddamn sociable, when she’s least wanted. 

“Yo, it’s open,” he yells, giving in, and he walks towards the kitchen to get the shot glasses - they may as well get tanked together. The front door opens and Mickey hears footsteps behind him, feels a presence in the doorway to his kitchen. “Thought you were working tonight, bitch?” he says, and he turns around, finds himself face to face with Raúl. 

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes, and his eyes rake over Raúl’s body. His hair is hanging near his eyes, white tshirt clinging across his shoulders, stopping half an inch before the waistband of his skinny jeans; a small strip of olive skinned tummy and that hint of happy trail. Shit, he looks, good - so fucking good. “Fuck,” Mickey says again. He’s in shock.

Raúl laughs quietly, smiles a lopsided smile, and then they’re taking steps towards each other, unable to stop, magnets meeting somewhere in the middle of Mickey’s kitchen. They’re connected again - hips and legs pressed together, warm fingers rubbing against skin, Mickey’s lips against Raúl’s, tongues fucking in each other’s mouths, kissing. Mickey runs his fingers over Raúl’s cheeks, feels that stubble underneath his fingers, against his lips and he feels warm all over, like a missing piece of himself has been replaced, put back together. His skin is hot and electric under the soft pressure of Raúl’s fingers and he feels like he’s dreaming, experiencing some kind of mirage, mind alive and racing. Raúl came back. He actually fucking came back. Unless-

“No,” Mickey pulls his lips away from Raúl’s, pushes him away. “Nah, I can’t.”

“What?” Raúl palms at his forehead, eyebrows creased into a frown, confused. “Why?”

Mickey bites down on his lip, runs a hand through his hair, calms himself down. “If you’ve come here to say goodbye, I ain’t gonna..” he pauses, catching his breath. “Just fucking say it, cos I ain’t dragging this shit out.”

Raúl huffs quietly, surprised, disbelieving. “I’m not,” he breathes, locking eyes with Mickey, and Mickey stares back, waits for the rub, for the other shoe to drop in his fucking face the way it always does. “I’ve thought about everything, and I’m here.”

Mickey snorts, sarcastic. “You cannot be fucking serious,” he says, shaking his head, but Raúl just looks at him, brown eyes wide and open and honest like always, and he smiles at Mickey, bites down on his lip and nods in reply. “You’re fucking nuts,” Mickey mutters, laughing lowly and his heart quickens in his chest, his stomach twisting and turning and fucking fluttering and he just lets it happen. Shit, he welcomes it this time. 

Raúl places his hands on Mickey’s hips, pulls Mickey towards him. “Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe we both are,” he presses his forehead against Mickey’s, his warm breath tickling against his mouth. Raúl hums low in his throat, presses his lips over Mickey’s jaw, his neck, fingers running through the hairs at the back of his head. “But no more lies Mickey, please. I need to know what happened. Will you tell me?”

Mickey relaxes, gives in to Raúl, sliding his hands around to the small of his back. He bites down hard on his bottom lip, needs to know this is actually happening, that Raúl is really here and not part of some sick hallucination. His lip stings under the pressure, tastes a little metallic - this is real. This is definitely real. “Yeah, I’ll tell you,” he murmurs, tilting his head up, kissing Raúl’s lips, soft and slow, tender.

Raúl exhales shakily, smiles. “I missed you, Mickey,” he breathes, and he wraps his arms around Mickey’s shoulders, hums quietly. Mickey blinks, lets himself relax into Raúl’s arms, repeating the words in his head - _I missed you, Mickey_ \- and he tries to remember if anyone has ever said that to him before. 

“I missed you so much,” Raúl repeats absently and Mickey realises that, no - nobody has ever told him that they missed him before now, and he smiles. 

“I wanna tell you,” Mickey says, and Raúl rubs their noses together. “I wanna tell you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy to have this chapter up, because I love the conversation with Raúl and his abuela, and sharing more about Raúl's life. I know the chapter was a bit light on Mickey x Raúl together but they had to do their own thing to sort themselves out.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting!
> 
> More soon..
> 
> Here are some pictures of Raúl's sister, Isabella;
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> 


	14. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey tells Raul about his past
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>  
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii!! This chapter was hard to write because there's a lot of *attempting to fix Shameless' mistakes* here. I did alot of research for this chapter (why it's been so long in between updates) and tried to make it as realistic as I could. Some parts of S7 canon that we don't like are made clear and given context.
> 
> A couple of heads ups;
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> 1\. A Cowboy is prison slang for a young prison guard that inmates manipulate (Cowboy is YOBWOC backwards and is an acronym - young, obnoxious, bastard we often con)
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> 2\. Ramen noodles are the most valued and sought after commodity in US prisons, because prison food is apparently terrible. 
> 
> Everything will make sense, keep reading...

**Cook County Metropolitan Correctional Centre - Four months in**

Mickey stood in the line for the chow hall holding his metal tray in his hand, waiting for the line to finally start moving. There was a grunting sound behind him, and he stumbled forward suddenly - cold, hard metal to his back as the inmate behind him struck him with a tray.

“You got a fucking deathwish?” Mickey hissed, spinning around quickly, his fist stopping so close to the inmate’s face, he could feel the stubble against his knuckles. He was always on high alert these days, a bear after being poked - the only way to be in the joint if you wanted to survive. “You wanna try that shit again?” He was face to face with Carlson - that goddamn idiot. He wasn’t a bad guy, just kinda fucking stupid. A hothead. 

“All good, Milkovich,” Carlson said quickly, shaking his head, a hand raised in surrender. ”My bad, my bad. Don’t mean no harm. Just minding my business.”

Mickey bit down his lip, lurching forward toward Carlson one last time - a threat. “You’re damn right you’re minding your fucking business,” he snarled, only half serious, and swallowed the laughter that waited in his throat threatening to call his bluff.

“Inmates!” a female voice called out from the entrance to the chow hall. “Class I violation warning!” 

Mickey smirked - he knew who that voice belonged to, and he turned around allowing himself to laugh finally. He sneered, making eye contact with Cowgirl - that fucking prison guard bitch who never had the balls to write him up. She was looking right at him - because she was _always_ looking at him - and Mickey licked his lips, running his tongue over the edge of his mouth. Sure, he was gay, but he knew what it meant when some chick looked at him like that and was bored as shit wasting away in the joint - may as well have some fun with it; tease her a little. 

Cowgirl blushed, shifting awkwardly on the spot and Mickey chuckled again, turning around as the chow line started moving finally. He held out his tray as the kitchen crew slopped mashed potatoes and mystery meat in front of him and he walked to the back of the hall, sitting down at his regular table, in his usual seat. Everyday was the fucking same in the joint - monotonous, boring and goddamn depressing at times. Ever since Ian and Svetlana stopped visiting, he barely even knew what fucking day it was. Shit, it could be christmas for all Mickey knew. 

The conversation at the table was boring - inmates talking about overcrowding and prison transfers and Mickey ate in silence, forcing himself to swallow each thick, starchy mouthful of his meal. At the opposite end of the table Damon was talking about Mexico, and Mickey strained his ears to listen in, picking the English words from the Spanish and trying to piece the conversation together. 

A pair of hands slammed down onto the table in front of Mickey, blanketing the inmates around him in wave of uneasy silence, and he jumped, surprised. He stared at the tattoos - spiderwebs inked over hands and forearms - each web representing time served or years sentenced. Either way, the tattoos spelled bad fucking news for someone. Mickey swallowed his mouthful of mash and leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, ready to watch this shitshow go down.

“Heard something about you, Milkovich.”

Oh _fuck_. 

The voice was gruff and deep with the hint of an accent and Mickey’s breath caught in his throat. He felt himself growing warm, sweating, and the slow, heavy weight of the prison mash as it settled like a rock in his stomach. The inmate leaned over him, casting a shadow over the table and Mickey looked up, heart pounding, and he found himself staring into the nostrils of Dabrowski; the six foot and then some Polish gangbanger - built like the side of a house, multiple life sentences.

This was bad. Whatever the fuck this motherfucker wanted, it was _definitely_ bad.

“Good for you, fuckface,” Mickey bit down on his lip, eyebrows raised, trying to appear calm, unbothered by it all. “I’m real fucking impressed.”

Dabrowski smirked, shook his head. “I heard,” he chuckled lowly, pausing, eyes boring into Mickey’s, before he spat his words, “you’re a fucking faggot.”

A chorus of quiet sniggers broke out across the table and Mickey huffed, blinking quickly as tiny droplets of Dabrowski’s saliva settled over his face. The hair on the back of Mickey’s neck stood on end, prickling against his skin, that familiar loud whooshing sound roaring his his ears. He was on high alert once again, fight versus flight - his mind racing, thoughts bouncing between the best way to deny this shit, and wondering how the fuck he’d been ratted out in the first place. He stole a sideways glance at Damon, but he only shook his head, shrugged. 

“That name you got on you,” Dabrowski sneered, jabbing at Mickey’s chest with one giant index finger. “Bet that’s your butt buddy, not your son.” 

Mickey took a deep breath, closing his eyes as the last of his cards were laid out on the table for everyone to see. He needed to figure out a way to turn this shit around, or he was made. Finished. He’d be lucky if he lived long enough to ever be released for overcrowding. Fucking Svetlana and her disappearing act. What was the fucking point of a wife on the outside if he couldn’t use her as a beard? Fuck that bitch. Fuck everything. He opened his eyes, straightening in his chair, knuckles cracking under the table. He was ready to fight - whatever the fuck that even meant right now. Whatever he had to do, he was ready. 

“Been having a good look in the showers, huh?” Mickey laughed wryly, smirking as another wave of quiet sniggers travelled over the table. He stood up from his chair, leaning forward towards Dabrowski. “And you’re calling me the faggot?”

“Fuck off,” Dabrowski roared and he pushed Mickey backwards with one hand. “I ain’t hearing you deny any of this, Milkovich.”

Mickey stumbled, his chair screeching against the linoleum floor and he glanced towards the entrance of the chow hall, at Cowgirl; still standing near the door, fingers rapping absently against her gun holster, preoccupied and oblivious as usual. Mickey’s heart was pounding, an erratic marching band in his chest, his neck. Dabrowski was huge, a giant really, and he had a crew. Any fight between the two of them would end with Mickey in a bodybag, that’s for damn sure. There had to be some way other of settling this score. He looked over at Cowgirl one more time, a brief flash of an idea appearing behind his eyes and he swallowed, sighing deeply.

“Got nothin’ to deny,” Mickey sneered, forcing himself to laugh. Faux bravado. He nodded towards the entrance, took a deep breath. “Me and Cowgirl - we got something going on.”

Dabrowski stared back at him, eyebrows creased in disbelief. “Prove it.”

Mickey nodded, biting down on his bottom lip, sighing quietly. _You can do this. You can fucking do this_. He didn’t have to enjoy it, didn’t even have to like it. He just had to do it - get it done. “You watch,” he smirked, eyebrows raised, “Ten minutes with me and the bitch will be back here grinning from ear to ear like Christmas has come early."

“You wanna hope so,” Dabrowski scoffed, eyes raking over Mickey. “Be real painful for you if she ain’t.”

Mickey inhaled deeply, steeling himself, flipping Dabrowski off as he swaggered past the tables towards Cowgirl. And suddenly he was back on the Southside; a seventeen year old kid, terrified of his dad and everyone around him, of being the person he knew he was deep inside. Once again, he was living a lie, banging chicks for cover, because he could keep telling himself that shit was different now, that he’d changed, but that was bullshit. Nothing ever changed - not really. Not in Mickey’s life, anyway.

Cowgirl looked up at Mickey as he approached, and he licked his lips again, making eye contact as his tongue slid slowly over his teeth - his game face. He watched her blush, looking down at her feet, stealing glances back at him. This part was going to be easy.

“Yo,” he said, leaning towards her, hand resting against the wall. “Wanna fuck?”

**Seven months in**

Mickey slammed his Spanish phrase book closed, throwing it violently across the cell. It landed with a thud in the middle of Damon’s collage - his Mexico wall - and Mickey watched as the book slid to the floor, pictures of beaches and sunsets fluttering down after it. 

“Pendejo!” Damon sprang to his feet from the bottom bunk, sneering. He cursed, flicked Mickey on the forehead with thumb and fingers. “Hijo de puta madre!” _Son of a bitch!_

“Fuck off,” Mickey batted Damon’s hand away and sank back down in his bunk, stared up at the ceiling. Christ, Damon was so fucking protective of those goddamn pieces of paper. Useless junk - that’s all it it was. Mickey sighed, running his hand through his hair, stealing a glance as Damon crawled around on his knees, retrieving pictures from the floor. Mickey gnawed on his bottom lip - knew the Mexico wall was more than useless paper; it was something to focus on. A future, a dream - whatever you wanted to call it. But he’d been the worst kind of mood since Svetlana visited the day before and he couldn’t see far enough in the future to think about what they’d be serving for dinner, least of all fucking Mexico, or what he’d be doing eight years from now. He couldn’t think about anything at all, except Ian. Goddamn Gallagher.

Svetlana had brought divorce papers - and that was fucking fine by Mickey. Good riddance to the bitch. The two of them were no longer of any use to one another- he was just sorry it couldn’t have happened earlier. So, he’d signed the papers and Svetlana had told him a bunch of stories about the Alibi - nothing interesting or surprising. But then he’d asked about Ian, because the question had weighed heavy on the end of his tongue, and he regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

 _Ian is very happy with his big, black firefighter boyfriend_ , Svetlana had said and then she’d walked away - out of the prison, and out of Mickey’s life - leaving him alone with that information; fucking seething, eyes stinging in frustration and anger.

The thought of Ian with some other guy - some goddamn firefighter - was eating at him, festering. He wanted to know what they did together. What did they talk about? Did they go on dates? Mickey snorted. Well, of course they fucking did - that was normal boyfriend shit; the kind of things him and Ian never got around to doing. He knew Ian was never going to wait for him, but it was another thing having fucking confirmation of a new boyfriend and a vague description of the asshole. Mickey should never have fucking asked. He didn’t need this bullshit.

“Is your prison guard bitch doing the drop off?” Damon asked. He was on his feet again, chewing gum, repositioning his pictures on the wall. 

“You know she ain’t my fucking bitch. She ain’t nothin’ to me,” Mickey spat back at him, and then he paused, remembering what Cowgirl had told him about the drop. “She’s leaving the stuff in the laundry room on Thursday, aight.”

“Bueno,” Damon nodded, tossing the phrase book in the direction of Mickey’s bunk.

He caught the book with one hand, started flicking through it absently. “The fuck do we do do with twenty five packets of goddamn ramen noodles, anyway?”

“We trade them for better shit, homie,” Damon said through a mouthful of gum. “Jobs, favours, anything we need.”

“Aight, whatever,” Mickey shrugged and he continued flicking through the book in silence, watching Damon as he repaired the Mexico wall; chewing his gum, sticking pictures to the cinder block. Mickey groaned as the fucking idiot in cell 3C screamed again, loud and piercing. That goddamn asshole was always screaming and yelling about something, always working Mickey’s last nerve.

“WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?” Mickey screamed back, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Eight more years of this shit. Fuck.

“He’s being transferred next week,” Damon said absently. “They’re sending his ass to Indiana.”

Mickey grunted, barely interested. “How do they decide what fuckers get transferred?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Damon shrugged, and then he turned around, lowered his voice. “I’m getting out of here.”

“Yeah, me too,” Mickey rolled his eyes, snorting. “In eight to fifteen.”

“No, homie. I’m leaving, you know? Escaping,” Damon chuckled, shaking his head. He rested his weight against Mickey’s bunk, leaned in close towards him. “Got myself on a community work team. Cemetery gardening three days a week. When the time is right, I’m gonna split. Head down to Mexico. We could go together.”

Mickey laughed, a loud, full laugh from deep in his gut - the first time he’d laughed in weeks. This had to be a fucking joke. _Damon_ was a fucking joke. “You think this is Shawshank Redemption or some shit?” he scoffed, eyebrows raised in utter disbelief. “It’s a goddamn supermax and you’re an idiot!”

“You’ll see,” Damon shrugged. “Got my hermanos on the outside. Just gotta work out the details.” 

Mickey shook his head, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of course, he’d been paired with a delusional cellmate - a goddamn nutjob. He was only surprised it had taken him this long to realise. “Yeah, I bet you are,” he muttered, and he laid back down on his bunk.

Damon turned his attention black to the Mexico wall and Mickey opened the phrasebook to a random page, seething as the words stared back at him, mocking him; _Romance phrases. How to date in a Spanish speaking country_. Fuck that shit. He hurled the book across the room again, aiming lower this time, sighing as it landed in the toilet with a heavy, wet plop.

Just his fucking luck.

**9 months in**

Mickey was on his way back to his cell, tired from the ten hours he’d spent on community work release when Dabrowski jumped him. He’d been lost in his own head, wondering why the hell he had let Damon talk him into joining work release in the first place, just long enough for Dabrowski to catch him off guard - a clean shot. There was a whooshing sound behind Mickey, a rush of air escaping his lungs, and suddenly he was face first against the wall of the B block hallway; cheek pressed against cold hard cement, the suffocating, heavy weight of a body against his back, a knee wedged tight between his legs. 

“Got ya now, faggot.” 

Mickey opened his mouth, to curse, to scream at Dabrowski to get the fuck off him, but his throat was tight, and he gasped for air instead, trying desperately to fill his lungs. Holy fuck, he couldn’t breathe. He was pinned against the wall by an inmate three times his size, completely out of control and he _couldn’t fucking breathe_. 

“Got a message for you from Daddy Milkovich.” 

Dabrowski’s words rang in Mickey’s ears - a warning, a flag waved in front of the bull, and he fought - he writhed, and kicked and flailed as best he could, his body jerking and bucking violently against the giant behind him. But with each movement, Dabrowski pinned him harder, tighter against the wall, squeezing every last ounce of air from his lungs. This was it; the fag bashing he’d been expecting for almost ten fucking months. And of course his dad would be the one behind it, because that was the kind of bulshit irony that followed Mickey wherever he went. 

“Daddy dearest says he’ll see you soon.” 

Holy shit. Terry was coming. Shit, maybe he was already there. Mickey strained against Dabrowski ,his eyes darting around furiously, trying desperately to catch one last glimpse of Terry Fucking Milkovich - to look the bastard in the eyes before he ended him for good. But his vision was cloudy and it was impossible to focus. 

Air. He needed air. 

His pulse was beating slow, a dull laboured thud, and his arms were cold, tingling. He was weightless and heavy all at once, floating and somehow sinking at the same time, the prison around him growing dark, slipping away. And he was thinking about the Southside for some reason; about the Kash and Grab, Iggy and Mandy, that Sammi bitch, those damn Gallaghers, and Ian. Ian behind the glass when he visited, refusing to look at him, laughing at him, lying to him. That couldn’t be the last time they saw each other. Could it? Fuck.

“Lucky, I promised your daddy I wouldn’t kill you,” Dabrowski hissed, chuckling lowly. “He’s getting transferred and wants to do the honours himself.” He took a step back, releasing his hold on Mickey, laughing loudly as Mickey slid limply against the wall. “You’ve got two months to live, Milkovich,” Dabrowski chuckled as he walked away. “Don’t waste them.”

Mickey hit the floor, doubled over, his lungs stinging and crackling as they finally filled with air. Holy fucking shit, he was alive. The linoleum was hard against Mickey’s back, but he remained on the floor, gasping, coughing hoarsely as he tried to steady his breathing, to calm himself. But the blood flooded back to his head and his limbs and his mind raced, he started to panic. 

Two months. Two months to live. 

His old man was being transferred to the MCC and Mickey had a target on his back. It wasn’t paranoia, or worst case scenario shit this time. Terry was going to kill him. This was a _fact_. Mickey needed to think of a plan - and quickly. Maybe him and Damon really could break the out of the joint? It would be easy enough to walk the fuck away during work release, if they could get past the guards. Shit, he was going to need a fuckload of ramen noodles, would probably have to call in a favour with Cowgirl too, because there was no way he was going to die in prison. 

No fucking way. 

Mickey shot to his feet, light headed and dizzy still, staggering back to his cell on unsteady legs, the vague stems of an idea starting to sprout in his mind.

**10 months, 3 weeks and 4 days in**

“Think she’s gonna miss you?” Damon said under his breath, an elbow to Mickey’s ribs.

Mickey snorted, stealing a quick glance at Cowgirl standing a few feet away with her back to them, hand resting on her gun holster. “Nah, she ain’t that into me,” he chuckled quietly, ripping another weed from around the grave of some guy who’d been dead eighty years. “Likes me just enough to not wanna see me dead.”

“Lucky for us, hermano,” Damon dug his shovel into the ground, leaned against it. “Bitch took a big risk here.”

Mickey shrugged, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip. He didn’t want to think about that shit - gratitude, guilt, whatever it was. He was focused on the next step of their plan, on all the pieces that needed to fall together at just the right time. And he was thinking about Ian too, because with a bit of luck, he’d get to see him before they headed to Mexico. Shit, it had been a long time for the two of them - too long. “Your guys on the outside knows I gotta see Ian, right?”

“Si, si,” Damon nodded, impatience lingering behind his accent, “they’re professional. It’s all taken care of.”

The sun slipped behind a cloud, a shadow rolling silently over the cemetery and Mickey shivered as the autumn breeze nipped at his skin. In the distance, he could hear the rattle of the El, and the high pitched squeal of cars and trucks braking as the traffic started picking up before peak hour. It was late afternoon - almost time.

“Any minute now,” Mickey muttered, barely able to hear himself over the beating of his heart in ears and chest. He was anxious now, buzzing with nervous energy, trying to resist the urge to pace. He had to appear casual, natural - just keep himself calm and wait until the signal. If the pieces fell as he’d planned, if things went his way for once in his fucking life, they’d be holed up in Cicero in under an hour, laying low for the night. If not, he’d be dead one way or another. Mexico or die trying.

“Homie,” Damon held out his fist, and Mickey stood up, his knuckles meeting Damon’s in a fist bump. “Whatever happens.. you’re good people, Milkovich.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey kicked at the ground with his shoe, awkward. “You’re okay too, I guess.”

Across the cemetery, a few hundred feet away, there was a scream - high pitched and chortled - followed by another and then another still. The signal - Carlson doing his thing, just as Mickey had planned.

The guards ran towards Carlson, pistols in their hands, shouting code violations and Mickey threw down his shovel, ready to move at any second. “Hope he likes his ramen noodles,” he chuckled, nervous and on edge and he heard Damon laugh behind him.

He looked over at Cowgirl one last time, the look on her face a sentiment he didn’t want to acknowledge, but forced himself to smile - a silent thankyou. She nodded quickly, then waved him and Damon away, mouthing _go, go, go,_ before she took off in the direction of Carlson’s screams.

Mickey and Damon looked at each other, one quick glance that said it all; _we fucking did it._

And then they ran. 

* * *

Mickey almost regret his promise to tell Raúl everything. It’s not that he didn’t want to, but because he had no idea where to begin, didn’t know how to share the details of his life with someone who wasn’t there. Back in Chicago everyday had felt like chaos to Mickey; a mess of disasters that he juggled from one week to the next. But looking back he can see the connections, how all the pieces of his past stitch together; a thread woven tightly against itself. Some stitches are ugly - bitter memories he’d rather forget - some are beautiful, but all of them are linked, and he doesn’t know how to separate them to find the strands that lead to this moment - to him and Raúl sitting face to face on Mickey’s couch, in _Mexico_ of all places, his biggest secret laid out in front of them.

But Mickey stammers, and he curses and he drinks a beer or six, and he slowly picks at the stitches, teasing apart the threads of his past, pieces of himself unravelling in front of Raúl like a sweater, and Mickey can’t remember if he’s ever talked this much. He tells Raúl about his dad and his brothers and Mandy, about Svetlana and the kid, how he ended up in prison in the first place, and how he got the fuck out. And he tells Raúl about Ian too, of course. Maybe he doesn’t tell him absolutely _everything_ about him and Ian, but he tells him enough, and Raúl listens to it all, his fingers running through the hair at the back of Mickey’s neck, stroking his earlobe, his jaw - letting Mickey know he’s here and he’s listening. 

Mickey pauses every few minutes to get his head together, choosing his words and sipping at his beer and Raúl rubs at his thigh, reassures him _todo esta bien, Mickey -_ everything is okay. Still, with every story, every detail that passes Mickey’s lips, he feels anxious, and he searches Raúl’s face for regret - a hint of _oh shit_ behind his eyes _,_ a sign that he’s about to split for good this time. But Mickey can’t see it, and Raúl doesn’t leave - he stays right there on the couch, thinking, nodding, fingers brushing Mickey’s neck, a small physical connection he never breaks. 

And when it feels like they’ve talked for hours and Mickey doesn’t think he has any words left, Raúl pulls him onto his lap and wraps his arms around him and says _thankyou for trusting me, Mikhailo._ Mickey winces at the name as Raúl chuckles and he decides he’ll get Raúl back for that later, but now is not the right time because their foreheads are pressed together and Raúl is rubbing the small of his back. Then they’re kissing and it’s sweet and lazy and Mickey feels lighter somehow - like a weight really has been lifted, yet he’s also a little nervous, exposed, now that his stitches have unravelled. But he doesn’t dwell on that shit, because clothes are coming off and Raúl’s hands are all over him, soft light touches over his chest, his back, arms - fingers that feel curious like he’s discovering Mickey for the first time all over again. Then there’s fingers in Mickey’s mouth, and he’s sucking them as Raúl’s lips travel over his neck, his shoulders - warm, light kisses as he murmurs his name against his skin, slowly, hesitantly, _Mickey, Mickey, Mickey_ , as though he wants to say something but doesn’t. Those same wet fingers are working Mickey open, pressing inside him and he arches his neck back and Raúl nips at his throat with little nibbles, mumbling words in Spanish. 

When Raúl slides into him, Mickey’s eyes flutter closed against the sweet, warm pressure and he bites down on his bottom lip. Then they’re moving against each other, slow and intimate, breathing together - lips, hands, tongues against flesh, kissing, touching. Raúl’s fingers are twisting, pulling at Mickey’s hair and then he stills his hands, cradling Mickey’s jaw and Mickey opens his eyes, makes eye contact with Raúl. Blue against brown. But Mickey doesn’t look away this time - he holds Raúl’s gaze, shares wholly in that intimacy. He’s overwhelmed, consumed by the intensity between them as their hips rock together, chests pressed against one another, breaths hot and ragged and in sync. His mind is useless and blank and in this moment there is no Mickey - just Mickey and Raúl, Raúl and Mickey, as they lose themselves in one another completely. It’s been a long time since Mickey has felt this way with another person and he’s missed it. He didn’t know it, but he’s really fucking missed it. 

Raúl pulls Mickey close, holding his hands behind his back, murmurs _you’re beautiful Mickey, just amazing,_ and Mickey feels pleasant little chills all over his skin and then they’re coming - panting, moaning, kissing each other - shuddering together like a wave rolling over sand. 

They slump against Mickey’s couch, chests sticky with sweat as they catch their breath and ride out the come down together. Raúl’s lips are in Mickey’s hair, his fingers brushing lightly over the skin of his back and Mickey is lost in the emotion of how good - how _right_ he feels with Raúl in this moment.

For the first time in a long time, he feels like himself.

* * *

“Bueno cabra,” _Good goat,_ Raúl chuckles, rubs Seagal on the head as the goat munches on food, his head planted in his bucket. “Tonight, your papa told me all his secrets.”

Seagal bleats, grunting from inside the bucket, and Raúl laughs quietly at Seagal - and himself for attempting a conversation with a goat at one in the morning. “You don’t care, do you amigo? As long as your belly is full, you’re happy.”

Raúl rubs Seagal on his back one last time and reaches for his cigarettes, lighting up, savouring the feeling as his lungs fill with smoke, relaxing him in that special way nicotine has.

What a night.

Raúl’s mind is alive, still spinning, reeling from the aftermath of Mickey’s story. After months, Raúl had finally earned Mickey’s trust, and Mickey had told him everything - the good, the bad and the tragic. And the way they’d fucked - it still gives Raúl goosebumps, their bodies saying so many things where words would fail. Mickey has shown Raúl who he is, and Raúl finally feels like he knows him - _really_ knows him. 

But still, the night feels bittersweet. He’d laid in Mickey’s bed for hours, sleepless, drifting off every now and then only to dream of Mickey back in Chicago; his homophobic father, the rape, his son, the arrest. And in Raúl’s dreams he had watched the horror unfold in front of him, but he had been powerless to stop it - completely useless - and he’d woken up sweating and nauseous, anxious.

Raúl closes his eyes, inhaling smoke, and he imagines Mickey as he was arrested; screaming, fighting, swearing at the police as they dragged him away, interrupted at his life. And he knows the things that Mickey did back then weren’t _right,_ but still it’s so unfair, so cruel, that he was torn from his life like that, locked away for so long without evidence. He digs his fingers into his palm, bites down on his lip and he feels strangely protective of Mickey suddenly, and frustrated too - angry at the people who hurt him, and the way the dice had rarely seemed to land in Mickey’s favour. 

Seagal bleats again, and Raúl is back in the present, watching as the goat trots across the yard, disappearing into darkness. Raúl inhales slowly, deeply and he tries to let go of his anger, to free himself from that heavy feeling. It’s pointless to dwell on changing the past - a waste of energy, because it was the past that led them both to that day on the beach, the day they met. And Raúl wouldn’t wish that away, hopes Mickey wouldn’t either. 

He looks up at the sky, at the stars and the moon and the leaves of the palm trees that frame Mickey’s backyard, and he tries to clear his mind, to think about _anything else_ but the story he heard tonight. But the details are still so fresh, still haunting, and he knows he just needs to let himself think them over, to process and make sense of it all; find meaning in the chaos. 

“Ay, you okay?” Mickey appears beside him, leaning against the railing of the steps, arms folded and he nudges Raúl with his foot.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Raúl smiles, laughs quiety at Mickey’s impatience and he reaches up, rubs his hand over the smooth flesh of Mickey’s thigh. “It’s so hot tonight.”

Mickey nods, humming as Raúl strokes at his leg. “We good?”

“Si, por supuesto,” _of course,_ Raúl says and he shifts on the step, makes room for Mickey to sit down. “Come here.”

“You out here talking to the fucking goat?” Mickey sits down, takes the cigarette from between Raúl’s fingers.

“Seagal and I were talking about you,” Raúl nods, smiling, enjoying the tease. “He said sometimes he feels like you don’t want him around.”

Mickey snorts, exhaling a cloud of smoke between them and he passes the cigarette back to Raúl. “He ain’t as dumb as he looks then.”

Raúl laughs and he rests a hand on Mickey’s thigh, thumb rubbing absently at his pale skin, somehow even paler under the moonlight. Mickey leans into Raúl’s touch, natural, like instinct and Raúl’s chest swells, warm and happy. He sighs, pausing, taking a minute to choose his next words, because there’s something he needs to say, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. “The guy who drugged that Sammi woman back in Chicago,” Raúl says quietly, “I don’t think you’re that guy anymore. That’s not how I see you.”

Mickey huffs, looks down at his feet and he pauses, flicks an insect off the step with his toe. “Yeah, I’m different, I guess,” he shrugs. “Everything is different.”

Raúl nods. “We all make mistakes, Mickey. All any of us can do is try to be better.”

“Listen to Confucius over here,” Mickey laughs nervously, runs a hand through his hair and he stares into the darkness, quiet. “It was fucked up what I did,” he says finally. “Had plenty of time to think about that shit in the joint.”

“We are all so much more than our mistakes,” Raúl says softly, rubs gently at the back of Mickey’s neck. ”Don’t ever forget that.”

Mickey turns his head to look at Raúl again, gnawing on his bottom lip, blue eyes darting over Raúl’s face, vulnerable and Raúl wishes he knew what Mickey was thinking. There’s silence, only eye contact between them and there are words sitting on Raúl’s lips - beautiful, heavy words - but he can’t say them, not now. He bites his tongue, saves them for another time.

“Why is it so fucking hot tonight?” Mickey curses, breaking the tension between them. “I got sweat running down my goddamn ass crack.”

“Ya casi es verano, gringo,” _It’s almost summer,_ Raúl chuckles, and he wipes the sweat from his brow. It _is_ a hot night, even hotter back in Mickey’s room. “We should go to the beach.”

Mickey snorts, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Right now? At two in the fucking morning?”

Raúl nods, already on his feet, grabbing his shoes from near Mickey’s backdoor. “Come on. We can swim in the ocean water pool.”

“You really are nuts, you know that?”

Raúl laughs, shrugging. “But are you coming with me, Mickey?”

* * *

They’re standing at the edge of the ocean pool, stripped down to their boxers, the moonlight sparkling over the water surface, and Raúl watches with a smile on his face, as Mickey dips his toe in the water. He seems nervous, cautious almost - a side of Mickey that Raúl has never seen before.

“Think I’ll just sit on the edge,” Mickey mutters, and he shakes the water off his foot, arms folded.

“There’s no jellyfish in there, I promise,” Raúl chuckles, runs a hand over the back of Mickey’s head, musses up his hair. “Just dive right in.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, shrugging. “Fine, I’ll get in. But I ain’t wasting a perfectly good ladder.”

Raúl grins, an idea flashing into his mind - an impulse, and he grabs Mickey around the waist, laughing loudly as he leaps off the edge, bringing them both crashing into the pool. Water roars past Raúl’s ears, and the bottom of the pool grazes lightly against his knees as he hits the bottom, holding tight onto Mickey as they surface.

Mickey is swearing, cursing at Raúl in two languages as they catch their breath and Raúl is still smiling, still laughing as he blinks the water from his eyes.

“Holy fuck! You prick!” Mickey yells and he wipes the water from his eyes, breathing heavy. “You’re a prick!”

Raúl chuckles, rubs his nose against Mickey’s. “But you like me, anyway,” he says and he wades through the water, pushing Mickey back against the edge of the pool.

“That’s about the only thing keeping me from kicking your ass right now, yeah,” Mickey snaps, but his lips are twitching - a slow grin betraying him.

“Such big words,” Raúl murmurs, and he kisses Mickey, sucks at his bottom lip. Mickey wraps his legs around Raúl’s hips, and Raúl slides his hands over the back of Mickey’s thighs, humming quietly as the waves lap gently around their shoulders, his chest fluttering from the intimacy. Mickey grunts quietly, turning his head and breaking the kiss and Raúl chases Mickey’s lips with his own, pressing kisses against his neck instead. 

“Gotta ask you something,” Mickey mumbles, and he pushes Raúl away, holding him at arm’s length. Raúl nods, rubbing his hand over the small of Mickey’s back, encouraging him. “Were you thinking about the shit I told you and that’s why you couldn’t sleep?”

Raúl chews on on the inside of his cheek, feeling caught out, a little guilty. “I was,” he says quietly, and Mickey looks down at the water. “It was a lot to take in all at once, you know?”

“You gonna be able to get past it?” Mickey huffs, eyebrows raised, challenging him.

“Si, si, Mickey,” Raúl nods, his hands on either side of Mickey’s face, those damn words tickling the end of his tongue for the second time tonight. “We are good, Mickey - as you gringos say. We are good. Somos buenos.”

“Cos, I’m over all that stuff,” Mickey shrugs. “Shit happens. That’s life.”

Raúl sighs quietly and he feels a little sting in his chest, an ache in his throat because he hates how Mickey seems so convinced, so resigned to heartache. “Nothing like that is going to happen to you again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Raúl promises, wipes wet hair from around Mickey’s face. “Because I won’t let it.”

Mickey snorts, shaking his head, defensive. “What are you my knight in shining armour?”

Raúl shrugs, ignores Mickey’s defensiveness completely, because he sees through it now - he sees the fear behind his snark. “I will show you that things can be different,” he presses his lips against Mickey’s forehead. “We will make our own memories, Mickey.”

“That is the gayest fucking shit you have ever said,” Mickey laughs loudly, and the sound travels across the surface of the pool, echoing around them in a chorus.

Raúl chuckles, heat pooling in his cheeks because he really can’t argue - that was a terrible line. Cheesy, embarrassing. “Are you saying you don’t want to?”

“Not saying that.”

“Bueno,” Raúl murmurs and then they’re kissing again, languid and slow with lazy tongues that taste of salt water. “I have an idea,” Raúl says, as he breaks for air. “A race. Two laps of the pool and the loser takes the winner on a date.”

“Fuck,” Mickey whines, and he untangles himself from Raúl, pushes him away, splashing him. “I can’t fucking swim, aight?”

“Shit, Mickey! I’m so sorry!” Raúl exclaims, wincing and he feels horrible, guilty - he never would have pushed Mickey in the pool if he’d known that. “I had no idea. I’m sorry I pushed you.”

“It’s fine,” Mickey chuckles, shakes his head. “Was kinda funny. I ain’t participating in your little race, though.” 

Raúl grins, humming thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t want you to drown, Mickey,” he says, and he presses against Mickey again, sliding his hands over the curve of his ass. “So, I think you’re going to have to take me out.”

Mickey whines again, palms at his forehead. “I gotta plan it and everything?”

“You escaped prison!” Raúl splashes him, laughing as water sprays in Mickey’s eyes, his mouth. “I think you can take me on a date.”

“Already regret telling you that shit,” Mickey rolls his eyes, laughing, slaps his palm against the surface of the pool, throwing seawater over Raúl’s face. “Asshole.”

“Douchebag!” Raúl yells, and he splashes Mickey again, wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. “I can’t wait to go on another date with my douchebag,” he murmurs against Mickey’s mouth, and then they’re both laughing - loud, full laughs that radiate across the water, cutting through the quiet of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> Thankyou for reading!!! I really hope this was at least a semi-realistic way of fixing the mess Shameless made of Mickey's life. I know it's not perfect, but Shameless lost the plot.. the fuck can I do? Anyway, I've had this idea for a long time now, but the details were difficult to put together because I wanted to tie up all/most of the loose ends. So goodbye S7 Shameless, hello Mexico universe. Yay!!
> 
> Thankyou to everyone who comments - your feedback keeps me motivated and I love each and every comment I receive. I can be slow at replying because I am very easily distracted but I truly appreciate them all!


	15. La Tormenta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously in Trailblazer: In Chapter 14, Mickey told Raúl about his past and took it surprisingly well. Raúl decided if Mickey can escape prison, he can plan a date for the two of them.
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> Chapter 15 - La Tormenta  
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“Fuck,” Mickey moans lowly, grunting, tilting his head back against Raúl’s shoulder, “M’gonna.. gonna cum.”

Raúl exhales, a shiver rippling over his skin - goosebumps as he presses kisses in Mickey’s hair, his ear, the skin of his temple. He wraps his arm around Mickey’s waist, pushing himself harder against his back, needing to feel close, to feel Mickey’s body moving with his completely; skin slick and fused together with heat and sweat. Yo tambien, Mickey, _me too, me too,_ Raúl babbles and his chest feels warm and full, swelling with that beautiful, sweet feeling that makes him want to laugh and cry all at once. He’s panting, breathing heavy as Mickey thrusts back against him, and Raúl moans, his hips stuttering.

“Mickey..” he breathes as the warmth rolls over him, his heart beating hard, pounding, _Mick-ey, Mick-ey, Mick-ey._

Mickey reaches behind him, fingers twisting, pulling at Raúl’s hair, body bucking against Raúl’s, keening loudly from deep in his gut as he comes, and then he lets go, his weight collapsing against Raúl, panting, catching his breath. “Shit,” he rasps, chuckling hoarsely, “holy fuck.” 

Raúl grins through ragged breaths, humming quietly as he moves to lay back down on the bed, pulling Mickey down next to him. “You feel so fucking good, Mickey. So fucking good,” he kisses Mickey’s neck, his mind blank except for the words aching sweetly in his chest, waiting on the edge of his lips. He inhales against Mickey’s shoulder, nibbles softly at the skin, biting his tongue. _Not now, Raúl_ , he tells himself. Not now.

Mickey chuckles quietly, rolling over onto his back and Raúl reaches for the towel at the edge of the bed, cleans them both up a little. Mickey is looking at him, blue eyes behind heavy eyelids, sweat scattered in little droplets over his nose and cheeks, and Raúl can’t look away, doesn’t want to. “Eres bonito, hermoso,” Raúl murmurs and he kisses Mickey, humming low in his throat as Mickey kisses him back; the lush sound of wet lips against the silence of the early morning.

“The fuck is this _bonito_ crap?” Mickey pulls away, runs his fingers through his hair. “What’s it mean, huh?” 

Raúl smirks, bites down on his bottom lip, “I said,” he leans forward, kissing Mickey’s nose, “you are handsome. Beautiful, pretty.” He laughs, burying his face in the pillow, waiting for a punch on the arm, a slap against his head. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey drawls, pinches at Raúl’s ribs and Raúl laughs into the pillow, writhing awkwardly, ticklish. “Shut the fuck up with that shit, man.”

Raúl sits up, still laughing, moving to straddle Mickey, pinning him against the bed. “I just state the facts, Mickey,” he leans forward, capturing Mickey’s lip between his teeth. A little nip. “And you know I’m not going to shut the fuck up.”

Mickey snorts, rolling his eyes and he slides his hands, his fingers, over Raúl’s ribs. Raúl tenses, prepares for fingertips that pinch and tickle, but Mickey’s touch remains calm, still firm, gentle, exploring him. Raúl relaxes, and he leans back enjoying the attention.

“Fucking look at you,” Mickey growls, biting his bottom lip, eyes darting over Raúl’s chest, his tummy, his face. “Jesus.”

Raúl shivers - goosebumps as Mickey’s thumbs flick idly over his nipples, fingers running down the column of his neck, over his arms. He sighs contentedly his heart beating _Mick-ey, Mick-ey, Mick-ey_ in his chest once more. 

“This one,” Mickey says finally, a low whisper, and he traces around the edge of the tattoo on Raúl’s shoulder. The tattoo game. “Tell me.”

A smile creeps over Raúl’s face, because it feels like the first time Mickey has ever asked about him without prompting, without the question being a response to his own; _and what about you?_ His eyebrows crease, thinking - is it the first time? It is. His smile widens.

“It’s my mama,” he says softly, as he lays next to Mickey again. He shifts on his side, wrapping their legs together, noses touching. He needs to be close. Mickey doesn’t say anything - he grunts quietly, a little nod, and then his fingers are at the small of Raúl’s back. Slow strokes, telling Raúl everything he needs to know; _I’m listening_. “My abuelo sketched her portrait when she was young. Right before she left town with my padre.” 

Mickey nods again, biting his bottom lip, fingers softly working over Raúl’s back. “My entire life has a chapter on my skin,” Raúl says quietly, wistful and then he pauses, thinking. “Except my padre,” he adds, a shrug of one shoulder. “He didn’t earn a tattoo.”

“Sorry, man. That sucks,” Mickey bites his lip, a flash of something unreadable on his face, a darkness. “Deadbeat dad, huh?”

Raúl laughs wryly. Deadbeat dad. “He got involved with a gang, started dealing drugs. It was very dangerous for us all the time, but we didn’t see him unless he needed money or _la coartada_ … an.. an alibi,” Raúl runs a hand through his hair, deep breaths as he staves off the tight, ache that surfaces in his chest when he thinks of the time before he met abuela. Mickey hums, sarcastic almost, and his hand disappears from Raúl’s back. Raúl watches Mickey’s face, the subtle movement as he scrapes his teeth against the inside of his cheeks, blue eyes darting around the room. He’s said the wrong thing. Fuck. 

“It was nothing compared what you went through, Mickey,” Raúl sighs, frustrated with himself. “Lo siento. I’m sorry, I… I shouldn’t have-.”

“It ain’t that. It’s nothin’,” Mickey snorts, slides his hand under the sheets and between Raúl’s legs suddenly, stroking him, fingers working his dick slowly.

Raúl exhales, eyes fluttering closed. It feels good, too good. He whines softly, knows it won’t take too long before he spills over Mickey’s hand, but he’s at war with himself - _this isn’t right, this isn’t right._ “You’re trying to distract me, Mickey.. fuck-” Raúl gasps as Mickey’s thumb flicks over the tip of his dick. He bites his lip, uses every ounce of willpower he can summon and moves Mickey’s hand away. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mickey curses, rolls onto his back. Silence. 

“Por favor,” Raúl breathes, so quiet he barely hears himself. _You can tell me anything, Mickey, and I promise I won’t leave this time. I promise I’ll stay._

Mickey sits up in bed, lights a cigarette and he smokes for a few minutes, silent. “What you said about your dad,” he says finally, and Raúl mirrors his movements, shifting forward in the bed so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder. “That coulda been me once I got here, ay. Gangs and shit. Thug life, whatever the fuck.”

Raúl nods, runs a hair through his hair, choosing his next words. The maybe game; he’s been there himself - spent hours wondering what would have happened _if only._ Nobody wins at that game.

“But it’s _not_ you, Mickey,” Raúl leans forward, hugs his knees. “You’re not doing those things. Why?”

Mickey shrugs dismissively, sighs. 

“Do you want that life?” Raúl asks.

“Not really,” Mickey mutters, and Raúl watches as he gnaws at his lip in frustration. “I mean.. no, I don’t.”

“You chose a different life for yourself here,” Raúl says quietly, and he runs his fingers over Mickey’s shoulder, but he only flinches, pushes Raúl’s hand away. Too much. _Okay._

“I guess.”

“You did,” Raúl steals a drag of Mickey’s cigarette before continuing. “When you left Damon behind because he was a risk, when you arrived here and found a job-”

“I probably ain’t ever gonna see the kid again,” Mickey snaps, eyebrows raised, defensive. “How d’you feel about that, huh?”

Raúl nods. _Of course_. He sees it clearly now - the splinter his words wedged under Mickey’s skin. “ _Las cosas no son tan simples,_ Mickey. Things are not always so black and white. If you’d stayed in prison-”

“I’d be fucking dead.”

“ _Si,_ you made the only choice you had at the time.” Raúl inhales deeply, takes a risk and places his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, turning him so they’re face to face. “Why would I hold that against you?”

Mickey shrugs, shakes his head, _I don’t know._

“Mickey...,” Raúl murmurs, rubbing their noses together. He sighs quietly, wishes he could tell Mickey everything he feels; how much he misses him when they’re not together, how it hurts to hear him putting himself himself down. But he’s still treading carefully, still cautious of his next move. He doesn’t want to reveal too much, to force Mickey back inside himself. He bites his tongue again, changes tack. “Stop trying to push me away. Por favor. It’s not going to work.”

“Aight,” Mickey mumbles, shrugging.

“Bueno,” Raúl says quietly against Mickey’s lips. He kisses him, cups his face in his hands, says it again, “bueno.”

Mickey’s mood improves while they’re in the shower; the warm water seems to wash away the prickliness from earlier. It’s the first time they’ve showered together and Raúl looks on as Mickey scrubs furiously at his skin, his hair, fingers moving deftly working the soap into a lather. He’s never seen anyone shower like this before - so focused, anxious - but he doesn’t need to ask why. His year spent in prison - it’s understandable.

“Let’s take our time,” Raúl murmurs and he sucks gently at the wet skin of Mickey’s neck, hands sliding over Mickey’s shoulders, over his back to the curve of his ass. “No hay prisas, si?” _There is no rush_.

Mickey chuckles quietly, shuddering as Raúl licks a a drop of water from the column of his neck. “Yeah, yeah,” Mickey breathes, “ I just-”

“I know,” Raúl nods and he kneads at Mickey’s ass cheeks, the skin slippery and slick underneath his fingertips. He runs a finger between Mickey’s cleft, moaning softly when he feels Mickey harden against him. “I want to waste water with you,” Raúl murmurs in Mickey’s ear. 

Mickey laughs hoarsely and he grabs at Raúl’s hips. “C’mere then,” he growls, rocking his own hips against Raúl, warm, wet friction between them and Raúl whines from low in his throat as their dicks slide together. He pushes Mickey against the wall of the shower, chuckling as his hands cradle Mickey’s ass, lifting him up to waist height and Mickey responds, wrapping his legs around Raúl. And then they’re connected with lips and tongues, kissing and biting and stealing breaths against the warm spray of the water and two pairs of hands sliding over wet skin, smooth skin. Raúl’s fingers find Mickey’s hole and he buries two fingers between his cheeks, rolling his hips against as Mickey hisses and whines and mutters _do it, more, fucking do it -_ begging for him. Shit, he loves it when Mickey begs.

Raúl chuckles, wedges one leg between them, holding Mickey against the wall, sliding three fingers inside Mickey - he’s still loose from earlier and Raúl’s dick throbs at the thought - he did that, he stretched Mickey like that. Mickey whines as Raúl works his fingers in and out, hitting that little nub inside him again and again. And then Raúl takes them both in his free hand, stroking them. They’re both so hard and shit - the way the water hits the tip of his dick - it feels fucking great, so sensitive.

Raúl rests his head against the tiles and he’s panting against Mickey’s neck as he fucks Mickey with his fingers, jerking them both off and Mickey moans and whines and whimpers in his ear as he digs his fingers into the skin of Raúl’s back. One, two, three more strokes and they’re both coming, Mickey pulsing around Raúl’s fingers, the water washing away their mess. 

Mickey hisses, curses as Raúl removes his fingers, and he stands again. They chuckle quietly, mischievously almost, as they catch their breath and then they’re kissing again - lazily, catching drops of water in their mouths, hands moving slowly over flesh, tracing each other’s curves. Raúl sighs, smiling against Mickey’s mouth. This is nice. 

Mickey hums, pulling away from Raúl’s lips. “Ay,” he chuckles quietly, wipes wet hair from Raúl’s eyes. “Where d’you wanna go on this date then?”

“Where do you want to take me?” Raúl counters, sucking at Mickey’s neck.

“Ahh.. fuck,” Mickey winces as his Raúl sucks his skin between his teeth. “I don’t fucking know, man. I ain’t-”

Raúl chuckles, places his hand over Mickey’s mouth, silencing him. He doesn’t want to hear his protests - not today, not about this. “You’ll figure it out, Mickey.“ 

Mickey bats Raúl’s hand away and Raúl laughs again, pressing his lips in Mickey’s hair. And then there’s a screeching sound as the pipes in the wall contract, clunking loudly as hot water gives way to cold, spraying ice water over them both. 

* * *

Sofia is yelling; _Alta! Stop it, Mickey! Por favor! He’s not worth it!_ Her voice bounces off the walls of the alley, frantic and loud, but Mickey ignores her, just like he ignores Raúl’s voice inside his head - y _ou chose a different life for yourself here -_ and lays two more punches into the face of the asshole underneath him. The guy - some useless gringo tourist - begs, pleads, drooling blood and spit between every word. 

Mickey leans over him, knee pressed to the guy’s chest, pinning him. “You come into my bar, start groping one of my waitresses and then skip out on the goddamn bill, huh?”

“Not your bar,” the tourist protests, and Mickey nudges him, his full weight falling on the chest beneath him. 

“That don’t mean shit when you’re on your back choking on your own fucking blood,” Mickey leans forward, spits the words in the guy’s face.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the tourist begs between gasps. “You won’t see me again, okay. Please, just - I won’t come back.”

“Will you shut the _fuck_ up?” Mickey sneers, patting him down. “You think I came out here to kick your ass for free?” He chuckles wryly when he finds the guy’s wallet and starts rifling through the contents - credit cards, pesos, US dollars - and the guy tells him to _take everything, take whatever you want, you’ll never see me again, just leave the passport._

Mickey grabs a wad of bills, smirking as he shoves them in his pocket. “If I ever see you around here again, I’mma kick your ass from here to San Diego so goddamn hard, you’ll wish you didn’t have a passport.” He stands, releasing the gringo, kicking him as he stumbles away. 

“Mickey,” Sofia says quietly, eyes wide in shock. “What the fuck? That came from nowhere. It was terrible. But gracias, I suppose, for… how do you say it? Having my back.”

Mickey shrugs, it was nothing. “Maybe he’ll keep his fucking hands to himself next time.”

“Aye!” Sofia exclaims suddenly as they walk back to the bar. “How will we tell Jorge we got the money back?” She stops Mickey, her hand on his arm, and he flinches, withdraws from her grasp.

“I’ll think of something,” Mickey looks down at his hands as he counts out their cash. His knuckles are raw, grazed, little spots of red blooming against his skin. He counts out enough money for the bill and hands the notes to Sofia. “Give that to boss man. We’ll split the rest - that’s ours.”

Sofia hands the money over to Jorge when they return to the bar, and Mickey shoves his hands in his pockets, hides his battered knuckles.

“What happened?” Jorge asks as he deposits the money in the register. 

“Tracked that fucker down,” Mickey says quickly, stifling a loud belly laugh. “He gave the money back right away. Just asked him nicely.”

“Gracias, Mickey,” Jorge nods. “You’re a good kid. Good worker.”

Mickey chuckles, warmth pooling on his cheeks and a feeling of something pleasant, something unfamiliar rising in his chest. He hears Raúl’s voice from that morning in his head again and he quickly shoves that memory aside, for different reasons this time; to remind himself it doesn’t matter what Raúl thinks, what _any of them_ down here think - he’s still Mickey fucking Milkovich. Fugitive. Criminal. Fucked for life. Mickey sneers quietly to himself, kicks at the floor with his foot.

“We should report this to the police,” Jorge says, reaching in his pocket for his phone, and Mickey bristles at the suggestion, a cold sweat prickling at his skin.

“Motherfucker said he was going back to the US tomorrow,” he lies, swallowing heavily. “Ain’t no way we’ll see his thieving ass again. Cops won’t do shit.”

Jorge pauses for a minute, then agrees, nodding. He thanks them again and heads back to his office. Mickey blinks, stares after him until the door of the office closes and he and Sofia look at each other and laugh.

* * *

“Jorge is very impressed with you for giving back the money,” Sofia says later as she wipes down the bar. Mickey snorts, barely listening, his attention trained on the grey haired, fifty-something American stealing glances at him from the corner of his eye. Fucking pervert probably wants a piece of him. “Anyway, Jorge says we can close tonight on our own. He said he thinks you’re _fidedignos._. trustworthy.” Sofia continues.

Mickey snorts, ignores the warm feeling that travels of his skin. If only Sofia knew - if only any of them at the bar knew. “Yeah well, Jorge is a fucking idiot if he really thinks all I did was talk to that mouthbreather,” he mutters and he opens the register, starts counting the night’s takings.

“Looks like you might have gotten into a fight,” the old man says from across the bar. Mickey looks up from the register, glares at him, and the man gestures with his whiskey glass towards Mickey’s knuckles.

“Who the fuck are you, huh?” Mickey sneers, ignoring Sofia’s nervous laughter and her elbow nudging at his ribs. “You gonna shut the fuck up, or you wanna be next?”

“I’m David,” the man says, in between swills from his drink.

“I don’t give a shit if you’re Justin fucking Bieber!” Mickey leans across the bar, yelling. Jesus christ - he doesn’t have the patience for this shit tonight. “We’re closing and you gotta leave!”

“Hey hey, I’m going. I’m going,” David says, hands in the air, walking backwards towards the door. “You know, you might want to take up meditation. It’s good for your chakra.”

Mickey screws his face up in disdain. Meditation. Chakra. Who the _fuck_ does this guy think he is? “Okay!” he yells again, waving towards the door. “Fuck off! Goodbye!”

“You’re in a bad mood,” Sofia says once the bar is empty and they’re alone. 

“That guy was eyeing me off all goddamn night,” Mickey shrugs and continues counting the money. “Fucking geriatric perverts. Can’t fucking stand ‘em.”

Sofia groans, makes a face. “I’m sick of men.”

“I ain’t,” Mickey chuckles, raises his eyebrows, suggestively and Sofia laughs. 

“If I had a boyfriend who looked like Raúl,” Sofia sinks a playful punch into Mickey’s arm, “I wouldn’t be either.”

A grin creeps across Mickey’s face as he thinks of Raúl; flashes of this morning and the two of them in bed, and then again in the shower, on the couch before they both left for work - but then he finds himself gnawing at his lip, thinking. The date. He needs to think of some fucking place for them to go, something to do. 

“Ay, what’s good to eat in this city?” he kicks at Sofia’s shoe with his own, and she looks at him, eyebrows creased in confusion. “Not right _now,”_ Mickey sighs, lowers his voice, mumbles. “You know, for dinner plans, or.. whatever the fuck.”

Sofia exhales loudly, her face lighting up. “It’s a date, yes?” she grins, nodding. “You’re taking Raúl on a date. Muy romantico! What does he like?”

Mickey sighs, folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah, it’s a date,” he rolls his eyes, feels awkward. “He fucking lives on tamales, man. There’s gotta be something else.”

Sofia nods, eyebrows furrowed, thinking. “Take him out for some North American food? Something he doesn’t try often.”

“Aight,” Mickey shrugs, agreeing slowly. “Sounds decent.”

“That Texas Steakhouse on the malecón is really good,” she continues, pulling out two clean shot glasses from the shelf behind them, and Mickey watches as she pours them each a shot of tequila. “You will both love a Texas carne dinner, si?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

Sofia nods. “To us,” she laughs and Mickey groans at her ritual. “To beating up gringos and impressing the boss!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes at Sofia and downs his tequila shot. Weird bitch.

* * *

Raúl is already waiting outside the restaurant when Mickey crosses the road on the malecón, leaning up against a palm tree casual as fuck, cigarette in hand like he’s waiting for a goddamn bus. Mickey’s eyes rake over Raúl’s lanky frame and he licks his lips, eyes lingering on his skinny jeans and the edge of his black shirt resting above his hips. The shirt looks new - he hasn’t seen Raúl wearing it before and he glances down at his own; also brand fucking new, bought that very morning down at the bazaar. He chuckles quietly, thinking about the pair of them wearing new shirts on a _date_ \- a date that Mickey planned. That’s fucking gay. Mickey inhales, heavy, humid air in his lungs and he holds his breath for a beat or two, waiting for that feeling in his stomach - that dull ache of shame or embarrassment or whatever you wanted to call it, that would resurface back in the day whenever he passed some new _gay milestone._ But he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t notice anything but the warm twisting flutter in his belly, the shiver over his skin as Raúl’s lips curl into a smile when he notices Mickey walking towards him. 

“Hola, Mickey!” Raúl grins, runs a hand through his hair, eyes travelling over Mickey in the same way Mickey’s were just minutes ago.

“Yo,” Mickey nods, and he leans against the railing of the malecón. “Been waiting long?”

Raúl shakes his head. “Only a few minutes,” he gestures behind the row of restaurants and cafes opposite them. “I parked near the museo arqueologico and walked down here.”

Mickey nods, humming quietly and he takes the cigarette from between Raúl’s fingers, finishing it. “Let’s do this, then, ay? I’m fucking starving,” he chuckles, stomps the cigarette out with his foot, and he watches Raúl’s cheeks flushing pink as he agrees. Well, shit - Raúl is fucking nervous.

“You look great tonight, Mickey,” Raúl murmurs in Mickey’s ear, runs a thumb along the waistband at the back of Mickey’s jeans, as the waitress shows them to their table. “ _Muy lindo_.”

Mickey shivers at the compliment, bites his lip. “Fuck off,” he huffs quietly, embarrassed, and sits down at the table next to Raúl, allowing himself to look at him fully for the first time tonight. Mickey’s eyes linger on Raúl’s shirt - top two buttons undone to reveal his padlock chain, sleeves rolled up and sitting tight over his biceps. Fucking beautiful. “Look who’s talking, huh? Jesus.”

Raúl chuckles, runs a hand through his hair, and he bumps his leg against Mickey’s under the table, letting it linger so their knees are touching. They look at each other, gazes locked and Mickey sees that laughter behind Raúl’s eyes - that sparkle. He shivers - the first to look away.

“I ain’t been here before,” Mickey tosses a menu to Raúl. “So, if it’s shit - blame Sofia. She told me it was good.”

“Será bueno,” _It will be good,_ Raúl says and he looks at Mickey again. “It is already good. Let’s order drinks.”

The restaurant is a little loud at times, crowded, but it’s casual - none of that bougie, fine dining bullshit - and the food is familiar, the menu is English and the they’re playing songs Mickey remembers from the radio before he wound up in the joint. And shit, there’s even a baseball game playing on a huge fucking TV. The drinks help take the edge off, and Mickey feels a little less nervous - which he knows is ridiculous, because he and Raúl have known each other for six goddamn months, been fucking for just as long. But this sit-down dinner thing is new, and he’s kinda awkward, a little self conscious to begin with. At some point, Raúl’s hand moves to Mickey’s thigh, just above his knee - his thumb rubbing absently against his leg. It’s surprising at first, because anyone in the restaurant might see, and Mickey shoots Raúl a look that says _what the fuck are you doing,_ but Raúl only laughs, shrugs and reassures him; _this is fine, no one cares, please let me do this._ So Raúl’s hand stays under the table almost the entire meal, lingering there while they drink and eat food that tastes better than anything Mickey ever ate back in fucking Chicago, and they talk about work, and Raúl’s music, and the tricks Raúl wants to teach that goddamn stupid goat. 

Mickey pinches himself every now and then, because this whole thing almost feels like it’s happening to someone else, some other version of himself. It’s nice - better than nice - being here in the restaurant with Raúl, on an actual fucking date. And he feels that flutter in his chest, thinking that he could get used to this - he and Raúl together doing shit like this every now and then, and he reminds himself that he probably _shouldn’t_ get used to it, but he definitely _could_. When they finish eating they split the bill and there’s a moment, a look between them that says _I’m not ready for this to end just yet,_ and Mickey suggests the beach - as if he’s done this date thing fifty times before - so they can smoke some weed, drink beers, all that shit.

Outside on the malecón the night is hot and thick with humidity, and there’s a feeling in the air - an eerie quiet that somehow feels charged and tense, like a warning. 

Raúl looks up at the sky, brows creased, thinking. “Mickey, se avecina una tormenta. There’s going to be a storm,” he chuckles, nudges Mickey with his elbow, and Mickey looks at him, laughter and a sparkle of an idea forming behind Raúl’s eyes. Mickey opens his mouth, to ask _what is so goddamn interesting about a storm,_ but Raúl grabs Mickey by the shirt as he walks, quickly, urgent. “I want to show you something, Mickey. Come on. I have an idea.”

Mickey flinches, yanks his shirt from Raúl’s grip. “What? What the fuck?” he snaps as he strides after Raúl. “Where the fuck are you going?”

“Espérate, ya verás,” _Wait and you will see,_ Raúl laughs again, takes off at a jog, and Mickey watches as he disappears in the direction of his parked car. He curses Raúl, calls him a _random fucking weirdo_ and then he sprints after him, doesn’t even think about leaving without him.

* * *

Raúl drives them past Mickey’s house, the bar, the Centro Historico, off the federal highway, and they head west - further out of the city than Mickey has been since he set himself up down here. Fifteen, twenty minutes pass and they’re still driving. It’s dark outside; the streetlights have all given way to trees and the road beneath them is winding, gravel crunching below the tyres. Mickey watches Raúl as his attention shifts quickly between the sky and the path in front of them and he asks Raúl again, _where the fuck are we going?_ He doesn’t want to, but he can feel himself getting agitated, annoyed. What is the big fucking secret? 

“You’re so impatient,” Raúl shakes his head, laughs off Mickey’s annoyance, and Mickey doesn’t know whether he’s irritated or charmed. “Two more minutes and we will be there, si?”

“Better be” Mickey grumbles, folds his arms over his chest. He’s silent for the rest of the drive, staring out the window, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip as he tries to chase away his bad mood before it ruins the night.

The gravel road they’ve been travelling on has become a dead end when Raúl finally stops the car, braking at the edge of a cliff. “Estamos aquí,” _We’re here,_ he says, leaping out to sit on the hood of the car and Mickey sighs, follows him. They’re somewhere in the mountains now and the air is crisp and damp - cooler than it was in the city. And it’s quiet, so quiet - just the two of them.

“Look at this, Mickey,” Raúl drapes an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, fingers rubbing at the side of his neck and Mickey shivers from the contact. That feels nice.

He looks out over the cliff, his breath catching in his throat as he takes in the view. _Shit_. The city stretches out below them, lights punctuating the darkness like a messy grid of goddamn fairy lights. Mickey scans the streets, tries to orientate himself, work out where they are exactly, and he watches the cars travelling on the malecón, locates the sea baths and the restaurant where they had dinner, his street, Raúl’s - tiny streams of ants carrying lights on their backs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word falling effortlessly from his mouth. He doesn’t know what else to say because he’s never seen the city - _any_ city - from this distance, all lit up like this, and it makes him feel weird, like him and Raúl are the only people left in the world, the only two people that actually matter. He steals a look at Raúl from the corner of his eye, wonders what he did right to end up here with this guy - his fucking _boyfriend_ \- going on weird road trips, dating; all these _firsts_ that seem crazy but somehow make complete and perfect sense. He leans into Raúl’s touch, tries to hold onto that thought, but then there’s a rumbling sound, a deep, smack of thunder and Mickey swears he feels the vibrations in his feet all the way to the hairs on top of his head. 

The storm. _La tormenta._

“We made it just in time,” Raúl says, lighting a cigarette and bringing to his lips. “I love to watch storms from here.”

Mickey chuckles lowly. Fucking Raúl Zamora; always full of goddamn surprises. “So this is another weird ass thing you do, huh?”

“Sometimes,” Raúl nods, passes his cigarette to Mickey. “I like to be around nature. The quiet always clears my head.”

It makes sense, and Mickey nods again, but he doesn’t know what to say, has never done anything like this before, never noticed nature or any of that shit until he met Raúl. He stays quiet instead, cursing in surprise and awe as the first crack of lightning illuminates the night, bathing the city in a silvery white flash and splitting the sky in two, like a crack in a window. Raúl explains how to measure the distance between themselves and the storm, says it’s something his abuelo taught him and his sister when they were kids - and they count the seconds between each strike of lightning and rumble of thunder, laughing as the storm travels slowly towards them.

“Mickey,” Raúl says finally, sliding down from the hood of the car. He positions himself between Mickey’s legs, and Mickey wraps them around Raúl’s hips, bringing him close. He runs his fingers over Mickey’s knuckles - the bruises from that fight with the goddamn gringo. “What happened here?”

Mickey groans quietly, stares up at the sky for a minute. He _knew_ Raúl would notice, had hoped he wouldn’t ask. “Listen, some asshole put his hands on Sofia,” he says, nonchalant, shrugging. “Taught him a lesson. Nothing serious.” He thinks about telling Raúl about that fucking geriatric gringo who kept eyeing him off, but he doesn’t - figures that guy is goddamn irrelevant.

“You’re protective of Sofia. You look out for her,” Raúl bites his lip, rests his hand against Mickey’s neck, and Mickey snorts a little, feeling defensive, fighting the instinct to snap at Raúl, to ask him _why the fuck any of that even matters_. But he bites his tongue, knows exactly the point Raúl is making. “You’re a good friend, but you need to be careful,” Raúl continues, “Please be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey shrugs dismissively. He knows Raúl is right, but he doesn’t want to talk about this shit. “She deserves to go to work without being fucking groped, is all.”

Raúl sighs, bites his lip and he looks at Mickey thoughtfully. as if he wants to speak but doesn’t. He throws the cigarette butt to the ground, stubs it out. 

There’s another flash of lightning and the sky splits in two, and they count the seconds until the thunder. Two seconds. 

Raúl wraps his arms around Mickey, kisses him. “I had a great time with you tonight, Mickey.”

“Me too,” he murmurs against Raúl’s lips, and he kisses him back, shivering as Raúl’s fingers trace over his neck. “You know you hijacked this whole thing with your random fucking road trip, right? You’re so goddamn weird.”

Raúl smirks, chuckles lowly. “Oh, you don’t like that about me?” he sucks at a patch of skin on Mickey’s jaw, slides his hands inside his jeans, stroking at his ass cheeks. “Want me to leave?”

Mickey laughs, then groans as Raúl’s finger teases the cleft of his ass. “I fucking like it, don’t worry,” he hisses, rubs his hand against Raúl’s crotch - he’s hard. “I like _you_ ,” Mickey exhales sharply, pausing - shit, he hadn’t planned on saying that. _I like you._ It’s the first time he’s said those words without thinking about them beforehand, the first time the words have fallen from his mouth, natural, spontaneous. They look at each other for a minute, blue eyes against brown and Mickey can tell Raúl noticed it too because he smirks. He knows.

Another flash of lightning, then the thunder. One second. 

Mickey presses his lips against Raúl’s, slides his tongue inside his mouth and he feels goosebumps over his skin as Raúl whines - a sexy little grunt, and Mickey runs his hands under Raúl’s shirt and over his chest, imagines the tattoos he’s tracing with his fingers. Raúl responds, unzipping Mickey’s jeans, wrapping his hands around his cock and Mickey winces - yeah, just like that.

 

“Right here, huh?” Mickey mutters, nipping at Raúl’s neck with his teeth.

“Right here.”

The sky flashes silver-white again, and the thunder rolls in around them - almost immediately this time, and the air is electrified and damp - a brief moment of calm before the storm. And then the rain comes down. 

“We’re gonna get so fucking wet,” Mickey chuckles, as he works Raúl dick with his fingers.

“You saying you want to leave?” Raúl pulls down Mickey’s jeans, drops to his knees. Mickey groans as he licks a stripe along Mickey’s dick and he watches as Raúl’s lips slide over the tip. The rain is pelting down all around them, over them, hitting them from all directions and Mickey’s clothes are becoming soaked, sticking awkwardly to his chest and legs - but he doesn’t care about that right now, doesn’t give a shit.

“Just keep going,” Mickey grunts, sighing loudly as Raúl takes him in his mouth. Mickey rolls his hips, chases Raúl’s lips and tongue, places a hand on his neck, feels it swell as he thrusts deep into Raúl’s throat. And that warm feeling rises in his chest again - that feeling he tried to deny but now he loves - and he bites down hard on his bottom lip because his mind is turbulent, alive with the same three worlds from earlier and all he can think of, all he could possibly say right now is, _I like you, I like you, I like you._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! I'm alive! Sorry for the lack of updates on this. I wrote most of this chapter before Christmas. I wasn't happy with it, but I got distracted by summer (I'm in Australia) and everything that accompanies it. I rewrote this entire chapter these last few weeks. I hope you enjoyed it! Thankyou for reading!! I love these two weirdos.
> 
>  
> 
> I promise I won't make you wait so long for the next update! xoxo


	16. The Cactus and the Bean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously in Trailblazer: Mickey takes Raúl on a date. Raúl hijacks it and adds his own spontaneous twist. Also, lots of sex apparently.
> 
> \-----------------------
> 
> Mickey and Raúl's relationship is tested by the possible repercussions of Mickey's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

Mickey looks around him, eyes darting, panicked, shifting his weight as he balances on his heels - an animal caught in the headlights deciding which way to run. He can’t see a thing in the dark - sure as shit can’t see Raúl, has no fucking idea where he went - the only light on the beach the silvery fingers of moonlight, stripes upon the sand between the shadows from the palm trees.

He squints into the shadows, imagines the malecon above him, tries to orientate himself in the dark. The decision is made quickly, based on nothing more than a feeling, a vague idea that he knows the right way to go, and he takes off, sprinting awkwardly on the sand, heading towards what he thinks - _hopes_ \- is the quiet end of the malecon. 

The sand is loose and dry and sinks underneath his feet, spreads between his toes and he stumbles, lands heavily on one knee, cursing himself. Cursing Raúl. He dusts himself off, starts running again, kicking sand around him with his heels, shivering as the breeze blows the sand against his bare ass cheeks.

He blinks quickly, can just make out the shape of the stairs to the malecon in front of him, growing larger as he approaches. Mickey cups his hands over his balls, his junk, and he curses Raúl again - that fucking prick - and he takes a deep breath, prepares himself to cross the road, dodge the traffic, stark fucking naked. 

When he catches up with Raúl he’ll kick his goddamn skinny ass. 

* * *

Raúl takes the final drag of his cigarette, stubbing the butt out with his toe. He pulls out his phone, checks the time. Twentyfive minutes have passed since Raúl waited for Mickey at the change rooms near the sea baths, laughing to himself, Mickey’s clothes in hand, expecting Mickey to run cursing towards him, naked, demanding his clothes. Twenty five minutes. Raúl sighs. Mickey hadn’t come.

Raúl hums quietly, rubs absently at the hair on the top of Seagal’s head. “I don’t know where your Papa is,” he chuckles to himself as Segal bleats and chews at the hem of his tshirt. “But when I find him, he’s going to be upset with me. Muy enojado.” _Very angry._

He lights up another cigarette, inhales slowly as the nicotine stills the fluttering in his stomach, the anxiety that tells him he went too far; that he should have thought everything through before he ran to the sea baths leaving Mickey naked in the ocean behind him.

A breeze rustles over Mickey’s backyard, bringing with it the sound of teenagers yelling, the low thump of music, a party - distant and faint. And then there’s a sound that sends a shiver over his skin; sirens. Police. 

He curses himself, palms at his forehead, swallowing heavily as stomach sinks. Has Mickey been arrested? Is that why he’s taking so long to get home? Raúl breathes deeply, tries to calm himself; he needs to clear his head, to think.

Five more minutes. If Mickey isn’t back in five minutes, he’ll head out in his car with Mickey’s clothes and find him. Raúl stands up quickly - nervous energy - and Seagal bleats at him again, startled, before sinking a hoof into his shin.

Raúl winces at the pain, gnaws on his bottom lip. And then he almost laughs, because it feels like a show of solidarity between Seagal and his owner - a reprisal for stealing Mickey’s clothes. Raúl pats Seagal on the head once more and nods.

He probably did deserve that.

* * *

Mickey scales the metal side gate, chuckling wryly as his feet land on the grass of his backyard. Fucking finally. He rounds the corner, mind focused on the best way to break into his own goddamn house and he heads towards the bathroom window - resigned to smash the damn thing open - but he’s stopped suddenly, breath sucked sharply into his lungs with a loud hiss and he finds himself pressed face first against something solid and warm and familiar - Raúl.

“Fuck! Mickey,” Raúl exclaims, surprised, chuckling in relief as he slides his hands over Mickey’s bare shoulders. “Gracias a Dios. I was worried. I was on my way to look for you.”

Mickey grunts in annoyance, finds himself leaning into Raúl’s touch anyway, seeking out his solid presence until he remembers he’s angry at Raúl, really fucking angry. He shakes his head, snorts in disgust at himself, and he pushes Raúl away, both of them stumbling backwards. “You’re a fucking prick!” he yells, eyebrows creased, watching Raúl as blinks in surprise. “What the fuck, man!”

Raúl steps towards him, fingers finding the hair at the back of Mickey’s neck. “Lo siento, lo siento mucho,” _I’m very sorry_ , he pleads, flinches as Mickey bats his hand away. “Por favor, Mickey. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Mickey huffs, shakes his head. The fucking cheek of this guy. “You stole my goddamn clothes, man. How the fuck else did you think it was gonna end, huh?” He stares at Raúl, sucks on his bottom lip, challenging him, daring Raúl to match his anger, to curse and yell. 

Raúl runs his hands through his hair slowly, sighs. “I waited at the sea baths,” he says quietly, trailing his fingers over Mickey’s arms; he clearly isn’t taking the bait Mickey laid out for him, doesn’t bite. “I thought you would follow me, and then I couldn’t find you so I ran back here.”

“Well, I ain’t -” Mickey pauses, bites his tongue. _I ain’t a fucking mind reader, Raúl -_ the words sit on his tongue, unspoken, but he closes his eyes, anger melting away as Raúl’s thumbs rub circles over his shoulders, disarming him. He looks at Raúl, fully clothed, then at his own nakedness, and he chuckles in spite of himself - struck by the absurdity of the moment. “It’s all good,” he mutters, laughing hoarsely. “Figured you just wanted me to run across the city in my fucking birthday suit.”

“I would never..” Raúl shakes his head, moves a hand to stroke at Mickey’s jaw. “I wouldn’t leave you like that on purpose.” Mickey inhales, catching his breath in his throat as Raúl leans in, kisses a path from his neck to his ear. “But I do love it when you’re naked, Mickey.”

Mickey grunts, grabbing at Raúl’s jeans, hips pressed together. 

“I didn’t think I’d beat you back here,” Raúl murmurs, hot breath against Mickey’s neck. “You took such a long time.”

Mickey laughs, pulling away. “You run like a fucking gazelle!” He slaps Raúl on the backside, pushes past him, making his way across the yard to his clothes. “You’re a goddamn lanky stringbean! Course you beat me.”

Raúl snorts, chuckling as Mickey unlocks the back door. “Stringbean,” he repeats. “Okay.”

“Yeah, you’re all.. skinny and shit,” Mickey sighs, relieved when they’re finally inside the house - home sweet fucking home. “Like one of those long, green beans, ay.”

Raúl hums, thinking. “Do you know what you are, Mickey?” he jabs at Mickey’s shoulder and he spins around, watches that cheeky fucking smirk spread across Raúl’s face. 

“You’re a bebé cactus.” 

“What?” Mickey snorts, translates the words in his head. Cactus. _Baby_ cactus. “Why? What the fuck?” 

“You’re small and prickly on the outside,” Raúl kisses him, sucks on his bottom lip and Mickey groans, feels himself hard against Raúl’s jeans. “But tender inside,” he adds, lips brushing against Mickey’s ear, “like a cactus.”

“Are you fucking high right now?” Mickey huffs lowly, his disdain half-assed, because his chest is warm and swelling in the best way, and he feels kinda pleased - amazed, if he’s honest - that Raúl bothered to think of a name for him in return.

“Completely sober, Mickey,” Raúl chuckles, then grips Mickey’s shoulders suddenly, rasping in his ear, “turn around.” And so Mickey turns to face the couch, Raúl behind him, grinning to himself as he’s pushed down onto the couch, nodding when he hears the sound of Raúl’s clothes being shed and falling to the floor. 

“You taste good.. Muy bueno,” Raúl murmurs, kissing a trail over Mickey’s back, and then he drops to his knees, lips and tongue lingering at the small of Mickey’s back, teasing. “Your skin is so salty. Me encanta.”

“That’s cos some asshole had the brilliant idea to go skinny dipping,” Mickey grunts, breathless as Raúl rubs his thumbs over his but cheeks, parting them, sliding his tongue between them at the top of his cleft.

Raúl ignores Mickey’s complaints, nibbles playfully at his skin, and Mickey moans again, head rolling back as Raúl moves his mouth lower, deeper between his cheeks until his tongue slips inside him, slick and effortless, because Mickey is already stretched and open and ready. So ducking ready. Mickey whines, listens to the wet lapping of Raúl licking into him, hips rocking backwards against Raúl’s mouth, coaxing him further inside, until it’s not just Raúl’s tongue but fingers, too; fingers, tongue, fingers, tongue, one and then the other, then both, fucking him while they both whine from the sensations and Raúl moans those sexy little grunts against him. And then Mickey hears his own voice, urging Raúl on, _come on Raúl, come on_ , he whines impatient and needy, waiting to be fucked.

Raúl chuckles, hot breath replacing tongue, and he removes his fingers, moaning greedily as he does and Mickey knows he’s looking at the entrance, how stretched he is - how open. Mickey whines at the loss and then laughs, a half-chuckle half-gasp as Raúl presses himself against Mickey’s back, sliding inside him, filling him wholly this time.

Raúl hums quietly against Mickey’s neck, a question, _are you ready?_ And Mickey breathes deeply, savours the feeling of fullness - completeness - when they’re connected like this, Raúl stilled inside him, and then he nods and Raúl starts rocking his hips, thrusting into him, fingers brushing against Mickey’s chest, teeth digging softly into his shoulder. Mickey turns his head, leans back against Raúl, finding his lips and they kiss awkwardly, desperately as Raúl fucks him, hitting that spot inside him, sending pleasure in waves over his body until he can’t take it any longer and he’s ready to come, needs to.

“I gotta,” he rasps finally, pulling his lips from Raúl’s, and Raúl murmurs in his ear, _come for me, come for me,_ fingers wrapped around Mickey’s cock, finishing him off, and so Mickey lets himself go, releasing, keening from the feeling, their hips stuttering together as Raúl lets go inside him at the same time. 

They slump against each other on the couch, sweaty, panting and chasing their breath, and Raúl kisses Mickey’s neck, his shoulder, then shifts, pulling Mickey down to lay on the couch beside him. Raúl makes a move to pull out, and Mickey shakes his head.

“Stay,” he reaches behind him, pressing his palm behind Raúl’s naked cheeks, keeping him from moving, and he knows if he wasn’t so tired, so completely and utterly fucked he’d want to know why he’s not ready for Raúl to break their connection just yet, why he wants to stay like this. “Just for a while,” he adds, and Raúl nods, murmuring in Spanish as he wraps his arms around him, and Mickey closes his eyes, lets his mind slip quietly away.

* * *

Raúl blinks, waking slowly to the distant sound of traffic; the impatient, irritated beep of scooters and cars, and the occasional yells from pedestrians as the world outside Mickey’s house slowly shrugs itself to life in the early morning. They’re still lying on Mickey’s couch, but now Raúl is on his back, their legs tangled together, Mickey draped over him, still asleep and snuffling quietly, his head on Raúl’s chest. The ceiling fan above them purrs mutely, casting predictable shadows against the sunlight streaming through the windows, but the air remains oppressive - still and thick with heat and sex and sweat. Raúl stretches carefully, tries not to wake Mickey as he straightens his legs, wincing as his knees creak silently from a night spent squeezed onto a couch made for much shorter people. He rubs absently, softly at the skin of Mickey’s back and watches his face as he sleeps; lashes fanned over his cheeks, the gentle purse of his lips and the way his eyelids twitch slowly, subtly, as he dreams. Raúl’s chest flutters warmly and he feels a sudden urge to whisper the words he longs to say to Mickey - to speak them into existence just this once, without consequences or remorse, while Mickey sleeps. He opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly because something stops him - a voice inside his head says _don’t do it, Raúl,_ and then Mickey grunts and his eyes flutter open, and the moment has passed.

“Buenos dia, Cactus,” Raúl kisses Mickey, thumbs grazing the stubble on his cheeks.

“Asshole,” Mickey chuckles and he stretches, wincing as the joints in his shoulders crack. “Forgot this couch ain’t the most comfortable place to crash, ay.”

“But it was a nice way to fall asleep.”

“It was,” Mickey nods, studying Raúl, brushing the long hair from his face with his thumb, meets Raúl’s lips in a kiss - slow and lazy and languid.

Outside Seagal bleats hungrily from the yard, and Raúl pulls away moving to inspect the bruise he received last night, but it’s then that he sees Mickey’s feet; coated with sand and caked with dirt and dry blood. 

“Your feet are filthy,” he says and he rubs his toes against Mickey’s. “I’m sorry about last night, Mickey. Tell me how you got home.”

Mickey sighs loudly, pauses. “I took the fucking scenic route man,” he says finally, a wry laugh as he kicks at Raúl’s shin. “Ran through the construction sites where they’re building those new hotels and shit. Fucking barefoot all the way.” 

“Shit,” Raúl groans loudly. “I fucked up. Soy un idiota.” _I’m an idiot._

Mickey chuckles quietly, rolls his eyes. “Got wolf-whistled by a bunch of fucking smart ass teenage girls down on the malecon.”

 

Raúl bites his lip, stifling his laughter, and he slides his hand over Mickey’s butt cheeks, squeezing at the flesh. “They must have liked your white ass glowing in the moonlight.” 

“Don’t push your fucking luck, _Stringbean_ ,” Mickey snaps, and Raúl withdraws his hand, feels childish, scolded. “And to get back here,” Mickey continues, doesn’t miss a beat, “I hauled my sorry ass through people’s fucking backyards. It was a real fun time.”

Raúl whines, embarrassed, sorry. He buries his face against Mickey’s chest, kissing playfully at his skin. “Am I forgiven?” he mumbles, smiling as he feels Mickey’s fingers stroking at his back. “Do you forgive me?”

Mickey gnaws on his bottom lip, thinking, as Raúl runs a finger around his belly button, teasing him, and then he rolls over, straddling Raúl, hands rubbing at his thighs. Raúl whines softly, grins as Mickey rocks slowly against his hips, and he feels himself getting hard, Mickey’s fingers slowly stroking, encouraging him. He watches as Mickey hardens in front of him - and whines again because he isn’t even touching Mickey, knows he’s getting hard just from the sight of him. 

“Fuck me,” Raúl rasps. He’s not going to last - not first thing in the morning like this, and he grabs at Mickey’s hips, stilling him. “Fuck yourself on me.”

Mickey chuckles lowly, spreads pre-cum around Raúl’s dick with his thumb. “Do you feel forgiven, Raúl?” He hums, licks his lips as Raúl bucks greedily, chases the friction of Mickey’s fingers. 

“Por favor,” he gasps, “si, yes, yes.” 

Mickey hums, smug, mocking and Raúl frowns as Mickey climbs off him, wipes his hand on his thigh. What the fuck?

“Interesting,” Mickey smirks, pulls on his boxers, “I better go and feed that fucking goat. Finish yourself off.”

“Qué!” Raúl calls out, watches uselessly as Mickey leaves the house through the kitchen. He whines again, “por qué,” and he slaps a hand against his forehead, cursing as he throws a cushion across the room.

That asshole. Pendejo bebé cactus.

* * *

Raúl runs his hands under Mickey’s shirt, fingers running over his chest and Mickey rests his weight against the wall behind him, pulls Raúl close, kissing him harder, deeper. The noise from the bar grows distant, the hallway around them filled with the soft sound of lips and tongues and words murmured quietly in Spanish. He chuckles breathlessly when Raúl’s nose ring rubs against his cheek, and he breaks the kiss for a second, catches his breath. 

Raúl whines greedily, nips at Mickey’s lips with his teeth and then they’re kissing again, Mickey’s fingers in Raúl’s hair, Raúl’s hands teasing, playing at the waistband of his jeans. He feels goddamn consumed by Raúl right now - Raúl’s body against his own, Raúl’s fingers, Raúl’s lips - he wonders who this new Mickey is, this new version of himself making out with his boyfriend like a horny fucking teenager, outside the storeroom at the bar. Anyone could catch them - his workmates, his boss - and he’d thought about resisting, pushing Raúl away, but he couldn’t turn his thoughts into actions. And now he’s thinking completely with his dick because he’s considering quitting his job, leaving work right now and going back home so they can fuck. To hell with everything and everybody else.

“When does your break end?” Raúl pants as he pulls away, runs a thumb over Mickey’s jaw.

Mickey steals a glance at the clock at the end of hallway and he chuckles. “Five minutes ago.”

“I’d better leave you,” Raúl rubs his nose against Mickey’s, foreheads pressed together. “What are you doing after work?”

“Dunno,” Mickey shrugs, and Raúl nods, licks his lips. He can almost hear Raúl thinking, preparing to say something. “Going home, I guess.”

“Come have drinks with me and some friends, yes?” Raúl casts his gaze downward, then back to Mickey, smiling, eye contact from under his lashes and Mickey figures he’s probably being manipulated, coerced with those eyes and that smile, but he’s beginning to care less and less about that, so he lets it happen. “I want my friends to meet my boyfriend.”

Mickey huffs, feels that swelling warmth in his chest and he has words waiting on his lips; _yes,_ he wants to say, _I wanna meet your friends, that’s cool._ But he opens his mouth and he knows the words will be snarky, mocking. “Was kinda hoping to go home and fuck _my_ boyfriend.”

“We’re very good at doing that,” Raúl laughs quietly. “But there are other things boyfriends can do.”

Mickey nods, runs his fingertips over Raúl’s ribs. “Aight,” he sighs. “Let’s do this shit.”

“You should get back to work,” Raúl murmurs against Mickey’s lips, kisses him one last time. “Come by that bar on Avenidas Los Palmas after your shift. I’m playing a set there.” 

“Okay,” Mickey straightens himself up as Raúl leaves through the back door to the carpark, and his head is spinning, skin buzzing with something like excitement at the thought of meeting Raúl’s friends. But then he thinks about that for a minute - realises how he’s feeling right now has shit all to do with meeting Raúl’s friends, but the very fact that Raúl wants to introduce him to another part of his life. He snorts at himself, imagines the _old Mickey_ rolling his eyes and telling him he’s _fucking whipped,_ and he finds he barely gives a fuck what _old Mickey_ would think of his life now, and he smiles in spite of himself as he walks back to the bar.

* * *

Raúl isn’t sure what woke him in the night - it could have been Seagal’s bleating, or the sticky, stifling heat of Mickey’s room; the tangle of sheets clinging to his sweaty limbs like a heavily laden web. More than likely though, he’d been woken by the dark spectre that’s been hovering over his thoughts for day; that Mickey is barely speaking to him, hasn’t been for over a week now. But whatever the reason for waking at three in the morning, it hardly seems to matter, doesn’t change the fact that the bed next to him is empty, cold. Mickey isn’t with him.

The night they met for drinks with Raúl’s friends was the last time he felt wholly connected to Mickey, when the pair of them together had felt like a truly united front - an _us._ Raúl could tell Mickey had been nervous that night, anxious, the centre of a social situation he couldn’t control. But Raúl had sat with his arm around him, knuckles lightly touching the skin of Mickey’s neck, and he could feel the taught tension receding under his fingertips as the night wore on - as the alcohol settled in and Mickey realised that Raúl’s friends were okay after all, that they actually liked him.

“This is good, ay,” Mickey muttered quietly during a lull in conversation, and he knocked his knee against Raúl’s under the table. “Your friends are cool.” 

Raúl had wanted to kiss him then, but he couldn’t - the bar was too open, too public - so he’d just nodded and whispered _I told you so_ in Mickey’s ear, while the conversation turned briefly to the local music scene; those currently killing it, others who weren’t, bands on hiatus, side projects. The group were all musicians, but Mickey was a gringo, a novelty - and the topic of conversation almost all night. He’d offered his carefully scripted lies about his life in the United States and Raúl had backed him up where he could, the pair of them fielding questions without missing a beat - sharing sneaky, knowing glances between them, communicating with each other through subtle nudges under the table. Seamless and polished, like a duplicitous double act. And even though Raúl had been lying to his friends, weaving distance between himself and the group with their stories, he’d felt closer to Mickey than he ever had, sharing in Mickey’s secret - weighty and ominous. _Their_ secret _._

Until Javier had joined them. 

Javier, whom Raúl didn’t even really like, rarely ever saw. Javier, with his trips to San Diego to visit family. He’d eyed Mickey with the detached curiosity he leveled at most things that didn’t directly involve him, listened as Mickey relayed vague, nondescript fictions of his life growing up in Portland, Oregon; the oldest of three children, parents divorced. But when the conversation slowed, he sat back in his seat, watching Mickey, eyebrows furrowed.

“Have you ever been to San Diego, Mickey?” Javier had asked.

Mickey shook his head, gulped down the remainder of his beer. “Nah, man,” he replied, shrugging. He was relaxed by now - Raúl could tell. He had no reason not to be. “Ain’t done much travelling in the US. Never had the time.”

Javier nodded slowly, humming, and Raúl had sensed there were more questions on their way and he felt uneasy suddenly, nervous. “But you came to Mexico from the West Coast?” Javier questioned. “You look familiar, that’s all. I feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere before.”

Raúl felt Mickey tense, and his own stomach was heavy, sinking, as though a weight had been dropped inside him from a height. Mickey moved his hands slowly from the table, hiding his tattooed knuckles, and Raúl wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s, squeezing them, letting him know - _I’m here, we’ve got this._

“I mean,” Mickey coughed, cleared his throat and Raúl rubbed his leg under the table, encouraging him. “I’ve been _through_ San Diego on the way down here from Portland. Didn’t hang around or nothin.’”

“I love San Diego,” Javier said, “I was there only a few months ago.” Mickey and Raúl nodded, feigning interest as Javier studied Mickey’s face for the longest thirty seconds of Raúl’s life, and then shrugged, dismissive.

Raúl slid his arm around Mickey’s shoulder again, but the damage had been done; Mickey’s shoulders were tense, his knee bouncing underneath the table, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip - his tells.

They’d left for Mickey’s house shortly after and Mickey had been silent the entire way, brooding. They smoked weed before bed and made out for a while under the covers but Raúl could tell that Mickey was distracted still, that his heart wasn’t in it. For the next three days Raúl tried to talk to Mickey about Javier, futile attempts to chip at the walls Mickey had suddenly built around himself, but he’d only snapped at Raúl, become increasingly surly, irritable. By midweek Raúl had offered to stay at his own place, had hoped that Mickey would stop him, but instead he only grunted at Raúl, shrugged and nodded - tacit approval.

Raúl had stayed away for a week, given Mickey space, time to himself, because he understood that need for solitude, room to breathe - but he had no idea what he’d done wrong, _if_ he’d done anything wrong. It was painful to maintain the silence; the awkward, contrived distance between lovers and best friends who live ten minutes apart. What if they saw each other in the street? Would they talk or walk the other way? That something had gone so wrong between them that he even had to ask himself these questions sickened him, brought a lump to his throat. He considered leaving town himself, heading to Cosala to visit abuela, but in the end stayed in the city because he had shows planned and he needed the money.

Tonight, a week of separation stretched between them that somehow felt like months, Raúl had walked to Mickey’s house after his show - he had to see Mickey, to touch him, talk to him if he was lucky. He entered through the back door which Mickey rarely locks when he’s home, stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed next to him.

“Missed you, Cactus,” Raúl said, wrapping his arms around him, inhaling the scent of beer and cheap deodorant and tequila, and Mickey had murmured something in response, placed his his arm over Raúl’s, pulling him closer. Raúl savoured the feeling of their bodies threaded together again finally, warm and sticky from the summer heat, and he exhaled deeply, a stinging in his throat - relief, that Mickey hadn’t told him to leave, or snarled at him or pushed him away.

But now, in Mickey’s bed alone, he feels sick, realises he shouldn’t have come over at all. There’s more to the silence between them than only Javier - there has to be - and he keeps returning to the thought that has haunted him all week; that Mickey is slipping away from him, that he’s losing him because that’s the way that Mickey wants it.

Raúl’s throat tightens and he sighs heavily, a low moan escaping his lips and he realises he’s trying to keep himself from crying. He can’t let Mickey ruin things between them, he can’t lose him - not now, not like this. He smokes a cigarette to calm himself and then follows the muted blue light from the hallway to the living room, finds Mickey sitting on the floor in front of the couch collecting coins and killing mushrooms on the old nintendo. He stands in the doorway, silent, wincing as he tries to count the empty beer bottles littering the flat surfaces of the room - this week has been hard on Mickey too. He continues watching Mickey for a few minutes before he enters, switches the nintendo off, ignoring Mickey’s protests, and squeezes himself between Mickey and the couch. 

“Talk to me,” Raúl whispers in Mickey’s ear, wraps his arms around his middle, bare chest against Mickey’s back . “Whatever it is - even if it’s bad - you can tell me.”

Mickey turns the nintendo controller around in his hands, sighs loudly. “It ain’t your problem.”

“If it’s your problem, it’s mine too,” Raúl rests his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, holds him tighter. “It’s _our_ problem.”

Mickey chuckles humourlessly, sarcastic and hollow. “That friend of yours probably recognised me and that shouldn’t be your fucking problem.”

“Is that the only thing? You’re worried about Javier?” Raúl strokes at the plane of Mickey’s stomach, fingers tracing the faint edges of muscle, and he waits for him to respond, to open up to him but Mickey only sighs. “Javier is really only interested in himself. I don’t think we need to worry about him.”

Mickey shakes his head. “I gotta make sure he don’t go running his mouth,” he throws the nintendo controller across the floor towards the tv and a Raúl shudders. “Been thinking he might need an incentive to keep it shut.”

“We’re barely even friends, Javier and I,” Raúl sighs, chooses his next words carefully. “But you can’t threaten him. An innocent man wouldn’t do that.”

Mickey pauses. “I know,” he groans, rubbing at his forehead. “I fucking know.”

“So let me talk to him, si?” Raúl murmurs against Mickey’s neck, smiles as Mickey rests his head back against his shoulder. “I can find out what he knows - _if_ he knows anything.”

“Straight out asking the guy ain’t gonna work.”

“I know that. But I can be... what is the word?” Raúl chuckles, presses little kisses to Mickey’s neck. “ _Subtle._ I will be subtle, and I can throw him off your trail.”

“That’s just it, Raúl,” Mickey tenses, voice raised. “It ain’t right if I drag you into my shit. I thought I could do this with you, and fuck-. I don’t wanna end things with us, but-”

“I chose you,” Raúl fires back before he has to hear the end of that sentence. “I want you and all your shit.”

“You say that.”

He sighs, the true intent behind Mickey’s words is clear; _you say that, but you don’t really mean it._ “I _do_ fucking mean it, Mickey. Don’t you tell me how I feel.” Mickey makes a noise, a stifled grunt, as if deciding to speak but changes his mind, and Raúl relaxes, softens. “This is why you pushed me away, yes?”

Mickey nods.

“It’s easier to push me away than to talk to me,” Raúl muses quietly, an errant thought.

Mickey turns suddenly, straddles him so they’re facing each other. “I felt like fucking shit about it, Raúl,” he closes his eyes, head tilted at the ceiling. “And I didn’t kick you outta bed tonight, did I? I couldn’t. Probably should have, but I guess I’m fucking selfish. So I came out here to think about that.”

“If you were selfish you wouldn’t care if I was involved in this,” Raúl places his hands on Mickey’s cheeks, coaxes Mickey to look at him, make eye contact. “I will talk to Javier because I choose to,” he says slowly, pointedly and Mickey finally locks eyes with him. “And if my plan doesn’t work, I’ll let you break his kneecaps or kidnap his dog. Whatever you want.”

Mickey grins, laughing loudly. “Really?”

“No!” Raúl flicks at Mickey’s forehead, teasing him. “But I’m going to talk to him and you’re going to let it happen.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Mickey rolls his eyes, giving in, and then he leans forward, foreheads touching.

Raúl smiles, rubs slowly at Mickey’s back as they sit in silence, so close he feels Mickey’s breath, warm and tickling against his lips, little shivers over his body. “I felt like shit this week, too.”

Mickey places a hand on Raúl’s breastbone, exhales deeply, pairing each breath to the rise and fall of Raúl’s chest against his fingers. They’re breathing together, slowly, quietly, two halves reunited. He rubs a thumb over Raúl’s jaw. “Missed you,” he murmurs finally.

Raúl moves forward just enough to catch Mickey’s lips between his own, kissing him slowly and Raúl’s chest is suddenly so warm and sweet and full he feels as though it might burst, he almost wants it to. 

* * *

Mickey’s mood at work the night Raúl talks to Javier is foul - so caustic and volatile the customers refuse to tip him, and the waitresses who, for some reason usually find his outbursts funny, can’t seem to stand being within three feet of him. Not even Sofia - calm, accommodating Sofia - can tolerate the cursing, the slamming of glasses and bottles or the surly, smart ass barbs he fires in endless supply. And he knows he’s pushing his luck, that he should just shut his mouth and do his fucking job like he does every other night, but Raúl is meeting with Javier and Mickey’s head is spiralling, his thoughts uncontrollable and loud, barking worst-case-scenarios like a violent, rabid dog. What will Raúl actually do if Javier works out Mickey’s secret? Javier would need his ass kicked, some fear knocked into him - that’s for damn sure - but Mickey won’t be there to do it. 

He’s always been the brains behind the scheming and the planning, always been the one pulling the strings, in complete control of every detail - but now, with Raúl out there protecting Mickey’s biggest secret on his own, he’s never felt so goddamn passive, lame. The _not knowing_ is almost more than he can stand; he has no idea of the details of Raúl’s plan, no idea what they’re talking about. No idea about any of it and he feels completely powerless. Fucking useless. 

When he smashes his fourth glass of the night, Sofia begs him to go home. “Por favor, Mickey. Get some rest, sort yourself out,” she reaches behind his back, unties his apron. “We will tell Jorge you were sick.”

But the thought of sitting at home alone waiting for Raúl to finish whatever he’s doing with Javier is almost worse than staying at work and Mickey protests, vows to work the final hour until closing.

“If you stay here in this mood, you will get yourself fired,” she says solemnly, and Mickey sighs, knows he really can’t argue with that logic, so he lets her push him out the back exit and into the carpark. 

Hasta mañana.

Outside, the night is quiet, humid and sticky as it has been all summer, but still a pleasant change from the tepid, stale beer stench of the bar. The sea breeze carries the briney aroma of the ocean as Mickey walks home, and he feels the dark cloud of his mood lifting slightly, disappearing into the night air. He passes Raúl’s street and he bites his lip, feels guilty again about trying to push Raúl away for his own fucking good and hurting him in the process. What a stupid fucking idea that had been. He should have known it would never fucking work - the pair of them together are too stubborn or too lacking in willpower and common sense to stay away from each other for any length of time. Mickey snorts, rolls his eyes at his own stupidity - he drank himself to near oblivion for a week and hurt Raúl for no reason whatsoever. Javier might have an ass kicking in his future, but if he’s honest, he knows that after the last week, it’s him that probably deserves one. 

He’s almost home when the car slows to a crawl next to him, matching the speed of his steps, but he doesn’t notice, and he’s so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t hear the sound of the window rolling open.

“Hola gringo! How much to fuck that ass?” 

Mickey jumps, startled. “More pesos than you’ve had taco dinners, fuckface!” he searches frantically around him, tries to find something to throw at the driver. The car stops completely and hears a laugh from the driver’s side - that contagious fucking laugh - and he grins, rolls shakes his head and opens up the passenger door, jumping in.

“Fuck you, man,” he chuckles, and Raúl rubs the back of Mickey’s neck. “You’re lucky you’re good looking.”

“And I have respados,” Raúl nods towards the back of the car, and Mickey peers at the snow cones in their little cardboard stand, balancing on the seat. 

“Fucking nice,” he says as they turn down Mickey’s street. “So, what the fuck happened with Javier?”

“Javier won’t be a problem anymore,” Raúl laughs, and Mickey frowns, wonders what the fuck that actually means. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get inside.”

* * *

They’re stripped to their underwear, sprawled on Mickey’s bed eating snow cones when Mickey finally hears about the meeting with Raúl and Javier. Mickey listens wide-eyed as Raúl relays all the the stories, all the lies, the imaginary details of Mickey’s life before Raúl; how he’d told Javier that Mickey’s name is Michael Morgan, that he’d grown up with a dog, a cat and a bird he’d taught to swear, how back in Portland he had owned a metallic blue Honda SUV but had sold it to move to Mexico. The lies were elaborate, detailed yet somehow banal, almost boring. But Raúl’s personal favourite, the lie he was most proud of, was that Mickey had once worked at a bar Javier used to frequent - the bar itself long since closed, so Javier will never be able to verify the story.

Mickey nods, his head spinning, trying to process everything he’s heard. “So you ain’t just a pretty face, huh.”

“I told so many lies, Mickey,” he chuckles, crunches loudly on his ice. “I even surprised myself.”

“Congratulations,” Mickey pats Raúl on the top of his head. “You’re officially full of shit.”

Raúl shrugs, leans forward and licks syrup from Mickey’s lips. “It was easy once I got started. Maybe I have discovered a new talent.”

“What’s that?” Mickey slurps the last melted slush of his snow cone. “Fake backstories for gringo fugitives?”

Raúl laughs as he finishes his respado. He lays on his back on Mickey’s bed, fingers running idly over his stomach. “This is the funny part,” he says, and Mickey throws his empty paper cone on the floor and lays beside Raúl. “I talked about you so much, Javier became bored. I could see it in his eyes. I barely let him speak and in the end he started texting,” Raúl snorts, pausing to laugh and Mickey laughs along with him. “I think he even made up an excuse to leave.”

Mickey huffs, impressed, strangely proud of Raúl. He had clearly underestimated his ability to run a scam. “You think he believed you?”

“Si, si,” Raúl nods, and he rolls on his side, facing Mickey, head propped on his elbow. “Before he left ,he said he’s glad I found someone that makes me happy. That was nice.”

_Someone that makes me happy._

Mickey bites his lip, feels his cheeks flush. _“_ So Javier gets to keep his dog and his kneecaps, huh?”

“You sound disappointed,” Raúl laughs, leans over to kiss him and Mickey shudders, a shiver against his skin because Raúl’s mouth is cold and tastes like raspberries.

“Thanks for doing what you did,” he says quietly, brushing Raúl’s hair from his eyes. “For putting yourself out there. Looking out for me and whatever the fuck.”

Raúl hums, shrugging. “You don’t need to thank me,” he strokes at the skin over Mickey’s ribs. “Don’t ever doubt me, Mickey. We are The Cactus and the Bean. We have each other’s backs.”

 _Of course_ , Mickey wants to say, _of course we fucking do_ , but he only nods, speechless, overwhelmed. _The Cactus and the Bean. We have each other’s backs._ Raúl’s words flutter in Mickey’s chest, soft and weightless like feathers falling on cement, and he wraps his arms and his legs around Raúl, kissing him, fingers pawing at his flesh. A rush of warmth travels over him, throbbing under his skin and he experiences that now familiar feeling of total consumption-by-Raúl - and it’s suddenly as if what happens to him, will happen to Raúl too. The intensity of the feeling terrifies him, and yet, he still finds himself wanting, needing more of Raúl than he can hold onto.

“Raúl, I-,” Mickey rasps, heart in his throat as he fights back the words, barely-formed, stupid fucking words that almost tumble past his lips.

“Hmm?” Raúl rolls on top of Mickey, kisses his neck. “What is it?”

Mickey shakes his head quickly, dismissive. “Nothing,” he murmurs, and they hold eye contact, blue against brown. He’s panting, chest heaving against Raúl’s as he studies his eyes, tries calm himself down by memorising all the details, the grey and green and brown flecks.

“The Cactus and the Bean, huh?” he says finally, and Raúl nods, chuckling quietly. “I like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMGGGGG thankyou for reading! Someone please tell me how to stop writing such long chapters???? I could split them into two but I like to write with a theme. As usual, I'm sorry for inability to write quickly. I hope you enjoyed this though!! Coming soonish.. these two take their first overnight trip together. HMU in the comments, I love to talk about these two xxx
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